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al |_-.:. :.-.-:: / / books . qooqle . com/| 



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! 




POPULAR NOVELS 

BY MAY AGNES FLEMING. 



i.-»UY EARLSCOURTS WIFE. 

a.- A WONDERFUL WOMAN. 

3.— A TERRIBLE SECRET. 

4.— NORINE'S REVENGE. 

5.— A MAD MARRIAGE. 

&— ONE NIGHT'S MYSTERY. 

7.— KATE DANTON. 

8.— SILENT AND TRUE. 

9.— HEIR OF CHARLTON. 
10.— CARRIED BY STORM, 
xx.— LOST FOR A WOMAN, 
xa.— A WIFE'S TRAGEDY. 
13— A CHANGED HEART. 
X4— PRIDE AND PASSION. 
15— SHARING HER CRIME, 
x6— A WRONGED WIFE. 
x 7 — MAUDE PERCY S SECRET. 
18— THE ACTRESS' DAUGHTER. 
19.— THE QUEEN OF THE ISLE, 
aa— THE MIDNIGHT QUEEN, 
ax.— EDITH PERCIVAL. 
aa— WEDDED FOR PIQUE. 
83,— A FATEFUL ABDUCTION. 
84.— THE SISTERS OF TORWOOD. (New). 

Mrs. Fleming's stories are growing more and more popular 
every day. Their delineations of character, life-like con- 
versations, flashes of wit, constantly varying scenes, 
and deeply interesting plots, combine to place 
their author in the very first rank of Modern 
Novelists." 

Elegantly bound in cloth, Price 50 cts each, and sent 
pxbb by mail on receipt of price, by 



G. W. Dillingham Co., 

NEW YORK. 



-r 



THE 



HEIR OF CHARLTON 



A STORY OF SHADDECK LIGHT 

AS PUBLISHED IN THE New YORK WEEKLY 

Volume XXXII, No. 49 



BY 



MAY AGNES FLEMING / 



AUTHOR 01 



'Ocv Earlscourt's Wipe," u A Wonderful Woman," i4 A Terrible 
Secret," **Norinb's Revenge," "A Mad Marriage," 
**Onb Night's Mystery," etc 



U 




G. W. DILLINGHAM COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS NEW YORK 



THE NEW TOM 

PUBLIC UBRA1Y 

278757B 

xarta. mm aw 

ft ft* L 



1 



Copyright, 1877, by 
Street & Smith. 

Copyright, 1878, by 
G. W. Carleton & Ca 

Copyright, 1905, by 
Maude A. Fleming. 



The Heir of Charlton. 



Fran of J. J. Little & Co. 
Attar Place, New York. 



CONTENTS. 



PART FIRST. 



I.— Shaddeck Light t f 

II. — Charlton Place , 15 

III.— A FairyTale. si 

IV.— A Man's Letter. »f 

V. —Before Breakfast i . . 34 

VI.— After Breakfast 44 

VII. — In the Cool of the Evening 55 

VIIL— By the Light of the Moon. 66 

IX. — How the Game was Made 76 

X.— The End of the Fairy Tale. 85 

XI — Shaddeck Light "04 

XII. — An Evening at Shaddeck Light 115 

XIII.— A Night at Shaddeck Light 113 

XIV. — A Morning at Shaddeck Light 131 

XV. — Captain Dick's Wooing 139 

XVL— How Dora Does It 148 

XVI I. —A Girl's Letter. 157 

XVIIL— The Days Before 167 

XIX.— Captain Dick's Wedding 181 

XX. — Post-Nuptial. t • . 194 

XXI.— "The Girl I Left behind Me." to* 

XXIL— "When Day is Done." 117 



CtWTMNTX 



PART SECOND. 

I.— Vera. 114 

IL — A Look Behind * 34 

IIL— " Love Took up the Glass of Time." 942 

IV.— At Dawn of Day S58 

V. — A Summer Afternoon. . . . *7o 

VI.— A Summer Night - . . s8s 

VII.— " We Fell Out, My Wife and L w S95 

VIIL— "O, We Fell Out, I Know not Why." 305 

IX.— Charlton Place 311 

X. — Husband and Wife. .... 395 

XI.— A Cry in the Night 339 

XI I.— In the Dead Hand. 350 

XIIL— In the Dark Hour. 36s 

XIV.— Tracked 374 

XV.— Trapped. , 383 

XVL— Shaddeck Light..,. |fi 



THE HEIR OF CHARLTON. 

21 Starrs 0f Styatftrtck Ctgljt 



PART I. 

She la too low for a Ugh pnto, too bfownfarafrirpfmlae, aadtooltttiefara 



; only this canmandatlon I can afford her— that won aha other thaa aha la, 

Ado about Nomura* 



CHAPTER I. 

8HADDSCK LIGHT. 




is very hot even for a July afternoon, and he has 
walked — if his lazy, graceful saunter can be called 
walking — fully two miles ; so. coming upon a green 
spot, he throws himself down in the warm, sea-scented grass, 
pulls his hat over his eyes, and prepares to think it out It 
is a good place for introspection ; not a living thing any- 
where, except now and then, a whirring seagull At his feet 
a long stretch of silver-gray shore and sand dunes, beyond, 
until lost in the sky line, blue, limpid, lovely, sunlit, treacher- 
ous, the sea. 

" She won't like it, that is a certainty to begin with ; ' so 
ran his musings. " And if her mother finds it out, she will 
raise the deviL She is a personal friend of his infernal ma 
Jesty, and raising him is tl e principal amusement of her life. 
I suppose it is in accordance with the eternal fitness of 



t SBADDBCX LIGHT. 

ddng% that the more charming a giri is* the more attorfy 

detestable her mother must be." 

He raises himself to shy a pebble at a sand-martin, hop- 
ping near. He is a slender, well-dressed, well-looking young 
fellow, blonde as to hair and complexion, and wearing, quite 
honestly and naturally, the listless look of a man bored habitu 
ally by this wicked world, and the people in it 

" Let us see what she says." He pulls out a letter, after 
some search — a lady's letter, long, crossed, and in the usual 
angular hand. " ' We leave on Tuesday next for the North,' 
yes, yes. * Mother is delighted ; ' of course she is, mercenary 
old screw. ' Mr. Charlton speaks of his son, step-son rather/ 
hang Mr. Charlton's step-son. * You must on no account fol- 
low me here. 9 Oh, but that's precious nonsense, you know, 
and after eight months' separation, and St Ann's not three 
hours' ride from New York, and as good a place as any 
other to kill — " a great yawn cuts short the soliloquy, and 
exhausted by so much mental effort, the thinker closes his 
eyes, and, lulled by the warmth and the wash of the tide, 
lapses into gentle slumber. 

He sleeps about half an hour, then he opens his eyes and 
looks about him. Presently his drowsy glance changes to a 
stare ; he sits suddenly erect, struck by a peculiarity in the 
view. 

During his brief " forty winks," a little island, about half a 
mile of£ has changed as if by magic into a peninsula. No 
magic nas been at work, however ; the tide is on the ebb 
and has dropped away from the rocky bar that connects it 
with the shore. On the small island stands a small house, 
and how the house comes to be thee would surprise him a 
little if it were not too warm to wonder about anytliing, 
He half rises, with the momentary intention of testing the 
solidity of this new path which has risen like Aphrodite out 
of the ocean. But it is still sultry, and the sea-weed will 
probably wet his feet and it is not worth while ; so he 



.* « 






* 






SHADDECK LIGHT. % 

fawns again, and settles back on the grass. Come «o think 
of it, how few things are worth while in this world. Even 
this trip of his down from the mountains, although the 
mountains in themselves are a delusion and a weariness — is 
it not a mistake ? It will be pleasant to see his fair corre- 
spondent, doubly pleasant to outwit her mother, trebly pleas 
ant to do something clandestine and wrong; but, aftet 
all 

The door of the small house on the islet opens, and a figure 
comes slipping and shambling over the rocks. He break* 
off his train of thought to watch, with the same listless glance 
his handsome blue eyes casts upon everything, this ungainly 
new-comer. He draws nearer and stands disclosed — a long, 
lank, tow-headed, ill-favored, half-witted hobbledehoy. He 
stares stolidly for a moment out of a pair of " boiled eyes " 
at the gracefully indolent figure on the grass, then is shuffling 
on his way, when he finds himself accosted. 

" I say 1 stop a moment. What do you call that ? " He 
nods lazily towards the solitary cottage on the rocks, without 
moving. "It has a name, I suppose, and a use. What 
may they be ? " 

"That air," the lean youth responds in a nasal drawl, 
« that air is Shaddeck Light" 

" What ? " 

" Shaddeck Light. Can't ye hear, mister ? " 

u Do you mean it is a light-house — that you live There and 
keep it ? " 

He has no particular object in putting these questions 
beyond the one object of his life, to kill his great enemy, 
time. 

" Mostly, doss ; me an' tne cap'n, when he's to hum." 

" Who is the captain ? " 

A light comes into the dull eyes, a flash of intelligence into 
the stolid face. 

" Reckon you'x* a stranger reound here, mister, or yem 



!• 



IO SHADDRCK £ *BT. 

wouldn't ask that Captain Dick, I guess there sis "t many 
folks reound Shaddock Bay don't know Cap'n Dick 
Ffrench." 

Up to this point the questions have been asked with lan- 
guid indifference. But as this name is uttered the young 
man sits erect, and his blue eyes kindle into swift eager in- 
terest 

" Ffrench ? " he repeats, sharply — €t Captain Ffrench ? — 
•cm and heir of Mr. Robert Charlton ? " 

" Wall, I reckon, mister, that* s abeout it." 

The interrogator pushes up his wide-awake, and takes a 
long stare at his companion. 

u And you — you're Mr. Richard Ffrench, otherwise Cap- 
tain Dick's factotum, I suppose ? Like master, like man. 
Is Captain Dick tLere now, and at home to callers ? " 

He does not wait for an answer, but rises to his feet, 
flings some loose change to the lank lad, and starts at once 
for the bar. 

" Durned if he ain't goin,' " the youth remarks. " Won't he 
spoil them swell boots though ! City chap with store 
clothes. I see him yes' day a loafin' reound the hotel." 

He picks up the pennies — the backsheesh is by no meant 
princely — and plods along towards the town. 

The shiny boots have reached the bar and pick their way 
lightly and carefully over sand, and sea-weed, and slippery 
rock. It requires some care to avoid stumbles *nd wet 
feet ; but he does both, and stands, at the end of fifteen 
minutes, on the grassy slope of the little islet, upon which 
the small gray house perches solitary and wind-beaten, a 
mark for blistering summer - suns, and beating wintry rains. 
It possesses two windows like port-holes, and a door ; all 
three hospitably open to the cool and fresh sea-breeze. On 
the threshold he pauses. He sees a small room, tke board 
floor scrubbed to spotless white, the walls glittering with 
whitewash, two or three easy-chairs, a comfortable-looking 



SHADDRCK LIGHT* U 

lounge, a table littered with books, maps, manuscripts, aewv* 
papers, pens, pencils, and bristol-board, and sitting among 
the literary chaos, his back to the door, reading and sinok 
ing, a man. 

" If that is yon, Daddy," he says without taming round, 
" I will break your neck if you come in." 

" It isn't Daddy/' answers a quiet voice. " I suspect I 
waylaid Daddy about twenty minutes ago, and wrung from 
him the information that the master of this hermitage was at 
home. Idleness — the parent of all evil — suggested I should 
come. I have the pleasure, I think, of apologizing to Cap- 
tain Dick." 

He takes off his hat, and still with his afternoon languoi 
upon him, leans against the door-post. The strong salt sea- 
wind stirs his lair hair which he wears rather long, a strong 
contrast in that respect to the gentleman he addresses, who 
is cropped within an inch of his well-shaped head. Indeed 
they are a contrast in other respects, for " Captain Dick," 
turning squarely round in surprise, rises, takes out his pipe 
and stands, a tall, broad-shouldered, sunburned young man, 
with a pair of fine gray eyes, under black, resolute brows, 
mind and muscle, brain and body, evidently equally well 
developed— quite unlike the slender, elegant, city stamped 
individual he confronts. 

" Perhaps I ought to have sent my card by Daddy, with a 
request for permission, as one does when one visits a show 
place abroad," suggests the stranger, plaintively. " I really 
fear I intrude. You were reading, I perceive. I am EraeA 
Dane, trying to kill the dog-days, down here by the sad sea 
waves, and finding it consumedly slow. Most things are 
consumedly slow, if you observe. Don't let me interrupt ; 
It isn't worth while. Being an inveterately lazy dog myself 
T have the profoundest admiration for industry in others. 
Ve will meet again, I daresay. I stop at the St. Ann'* 
intil then!" 



IS SHADDECr LIGHT. 

He replaces his panama and is turning to g% fcut C&ptaia 
Dick interferes. 

u No, no ; " he says, laughing. u Visitors are rare birds in 
my rock-bound retreat, and to be treated as such* There is 
no hurry as far as the tide is concerned, and, like the tide, 
my industry is on the ebb. May I offer you a cigar ? " 

"Thanks, no ; I don't smoke. Curious little den this oi 
youis, but a capital place for hard cramming, I should say 
You have rather the look of a hard thinker, by the by. 
Never think myself, if I can help it — one of my fixed prin 
ciples. Wears a man out, I find, and there's nothing in life 
worth wearing out about. Do you mean to say you live 
here ? " 

" Not exactly, but most of my days, off and on, I spend 
in this shanty when I am down in these parts." 

" Ah ! not your nights, then. That must be a relief tc 
your anxious relatives." 

" My nights, as often as not, I spend drifting about the 
bay with my friends the fisher-folk ; " responds the captain, 
good-humoredly. " I am an amphibious animal, I suppose ; 
I thrive best in salt water." 

Mr. Ernest Dane regards him with languid interest 

"Your days in study — Spanish, I perceive — and your 
nights in fishing. You never sleep if you can help it, I pre- 
sume. But don't you find the everlasting swish-swash of the 
sra, down there in the rocks, rather maddening ? * What 
are the wild waves saying ? ' and so on, something of a draw- 
back to close application ? " 

" I never hear it," answers Captain Ffrench. " With my 
pipe and my traps here, and my solitude, you behold in me, 
Mi. Dane, that rara avis, a perfectly happy man." 

He stoops to gather up a quantity of papers and meriW 
tanda that have fallen, and replaces them with care. Order 
enters largely into the phrenological development of the 
student of Spanish, as may be noted by the perfect neatness 



SMADDMCr UQHT. I J 

of everything in the bore little room. At he assorts lis 
papers, his visitor rises and crosses suddenly fc» the chimney < 
piece, over which hangs the only picture on the walls. It 
b unframed ; a head in colored chalks — a woman's head, 
of course ; a low-browed, fair-faced, serene-eyed, smiling- 
mouthed woman ; and underneath, in pencil, " Mademoiselle 
» New Orleans, May — * 1861." 

Mr. Dane produces an eye-glass — his handsome blue eyes 
are short-sighted — and looks at this picture. Then he turns 
and looks at Captain Dick, a look so keen, so suspicious, so 
swift, so full of fire, that for one second it alters his whole 
expression. For one second only — when the other glances 
up from his manuscripts, the habitually negligent and indif 
fcrent air returns. 

" A pretty face," he says, lightly. " You add artistic ten- 
dencies to your other virtues, I perceive. I don't know, of 
course, but it strikes me I have seen a face very like tha' 
somewhere." 

" Very likely. I have a portfolio about in some corner, 
if you care for that sort of thing. Do you sketch ? There 
are some rather good views here and there in the vicinity of 
St Ann's and Shaddeck Bay." 

" My dear fellow, I do nothing — nothing — absolutely and 
utterly nothing. I am ashamed of myself. I can recoLect 
no time in which I was not ashamed of myself. I have suf- 
fered from chronic remorse for my laziness ever ance I nad 
a conscience. But all the same, I never reform. I don't 
suppose I ever shall. I don't sketch, I don't read, I don't 
smoke ; I have no aims, no mission, no sphere. The world 
goes round and I go round with it I drift with the tide, 
and am bound to no port And, apropos of tides, the tide 
of our affairs will soon be the flood again, and our peninsula 
once more an island. So I think I'll make o£ I see yon 
have no boat here, so I conclude it is nothing snnsnal tm 
yon t? be oceanbourd.' 1 



14 SHADDRCK UGBT. 

" A boat is one of the necessities of my existence," Cap 
tain Dick says. " If you are going, I believe I will go also 
I am due at the house before six." 

" Meaning by the house, the residence of the Honorable 
Robert Charlton ? " 

" Ah 1 you know. Yes, Mi Charlton is my step-father \ 
and, by the way, as he is the soul of hospitality, I think I 
may tender you an invitation in his name. You must find 
time hang rather heavily, I should say, at St Ann's/' 

Yes, Mr. Dane admits with a gentle sigh. To find time 
hang heavily is, he regrets to say, one of the fixed conditions 
of his existence. It is the penalty, he supposes, life exacts 
from perfectly idle men. Very many thanks for Captain 
Dick's friendly offer, which at some future day, he hopes to 
avail himself o£ Then he lifts his hat and turns towards St 
Ann's while Captain Dick, whistling as he goes, gets over 
the ground with long strides, in a directly opposite course. 

The sun is setting. The sea lies smooth and sparkling 
below, the sky spreads yellow, fleecy, rose-flushed above, 
the fields swell green and golden far away, the beach 
stretches white and glistening near. 

Mr. Ernest Dane turns and watches his late companion 
out of sight, a stalwart, strong figure, clearly outlined agttinst 
the western red light, with something unmistakably military 
in the square shoulders and upright poise of the head, some- 
thing bright and breezy in air, and eye, and frankly ringing 
voice, something resolute and decided in the very echo of 
the firm, quick footsteps. Mr. Dane's face larkens, as he 
watches, and his handsome, bored, blonde countenance set- 
tles for a moment into as darkly earnest an expression as 
though he were a man with a purpose in life which that other 
man had crossed. It is but a momect He turns away 
with a slight, contemptuous shrug, just as the tall captain 
wheels round a bend in the white road, voA disaopears 



CHARLTON PLACE. \% 




CHAPTER IL 

CHARLTON PLACE. 

|HE is a handsome girl, and yet at first sight Jhere 
are people who do not think so. It if the sent of 
face that owes nothing to bright coloring of hair 
or complexion, little to dress, and less to ornament The 
hair is pale brown, absolutely without a tinge of wanner 
tint, either gold or russet, the complexion, clear and health- 
4il, is colorless; the eyes like a fawn's, soft, thoughtful, 
peculiarly gentle; the mouth at once firm and sweet, the 
profile nearly perfect Above middle height, with a figure 
well rounded and flexible, hands long, tapering, beautiful ; 
dressed in black silk by no means new, but well-fitting, a 
touch of fine lace, and a coral pin at the throat — that is Elea- 
nor Charlton, 

She stands at the open window and looks out ; a wonder- 
ful light of pleased admiration in the hazel eyes. Honey- 
suckle and sweet-smelling roses cluster all about the case- 
ment, and fill the sweet summer warmth with perfume. A 
sea of fluttering green leaves and brilliant flowers spreads out 
just beneath, and far beyond, with the hot, yellow blaze of 
the July sun upon it, another sea, all a-sparkle as if sown with 
•tars. 

" How pretty ! how pretty 1 " she says, a smile of pleasure 
dawning on her lips ; " how pretty it all is 1 How happy 
one might be— could be — in such a home as this." 

The smile dies away, and a faint sigh comes instead. 
For all the home Miss Charlton knows, has known for the 
past eight years, is the hopeless home of a city boarding 
house. 

A breeze comes up from Shaddeck Bay and flutters tfas 



16 CMdMLTOJf FLACM. 

honeysuckle bells, and swings the pink dusters of the 
A bee staggers heavily by, drunk with sweets, booming drow- 
sily. Little white-sailed boats glide about over the shining 
water, a door shuts somewhere in the sleepy afternoon still- 
ness of the house. Then there is a tap, and before Mia 
Charlton has time to say come in, the tapper comes in and 
proves to be Mrs. Charlton's mamma, a lady of die fat and 
fifty order, with a hooked nose, a double chin, a thin, com- 
pressed mouth, a hard, cold eye, a false front, false teeth, 
a good deal of gold jewelry on hands and bosom — the well- 
preserved remains of a "fine woman." 

" Eleanor," she says, abruptly, and turning the key in the 
door. 

" Yes, mother." 

Miss Charlton's voice is as gentle as her eyes, as sweet as 
her smile. Mrs. Charlton's, on the contrary, is of a rasping 
and astringent quality, that leaves an impression as bitters in 
the mouth. 

" I wish to speak with you, seriously, my dear, v-e-ry 
seriously," says Mrs. Charlton, taking a chair, folding her 
hands, and fixing her glimmering eyes on her daughter's face. 
" I have just been talking to Mr. Charlton, and he says 
Sit down. " 

She pushes a chair up, and Eleanor obeys. A look of weari- 
ness comes over her fair face, as if the ordeal of being 
u v-e-r-y seriously " spoken to, was no new one and no pleas- 
ant one. 

" As I inferred from the first, my dear," begins Mrs. Chari- 
ton, with unction, " Mr. Charlton had a motive in sending 
for us to visit him, other than that he set forth. People may 
remember their deceased cousin's widow and orphan, and 
blood may be thicker than water ; but, as a general thing, 
they don't send several hundred miles for these relatives to 
visit them, without some other motive than pure benevolence 
being on the cards. That something else I have discovered 



CHARLTON tACM. If 

and its name is—" Mrs. Charlton pantes in triamphanl 
expectation and Miss Charlton smiles. 

"Yes, mother, I know your perspicacity. It's name is ■■ * 

" Richard Caryl Ffrench." 

Miss Charlton lifts her pretty eyebrows, but she is not sv 
prised. 

" Captain Ffrench — his step-son ? Well, that is very natu- 
ral, mother, only I don't perceive the connection. What 
have we to do, what has our coming to do, with this modern 
Sir Philip Sidney ? " 

"My dear, everything, everything/ 9 Mrs. Charlton 
looks about her, glances out of the window, lowers her voice 
to a gunpowder-plot whisper, "Mark my words, Eleanor, 
Robert Charlton has sent for you with one purpose— only 
one — to marry you to Richard Ffrench." 

" Mother 1 " 

"It is perfectly true. He did not say so in so many 
words, of course. How could he ? All the same, that is the 
hidden meaning of our invitation here. And, Eleanor, mind 
what I am saying, it is the best chance you have ever had, 
ever will have. I look to you not to thwart Mr. Charlton." 

" But, mother " 

"You can raise no obstacle — none at alL When yon 
dismissed Mr. Gore a year ago, you said he was notoriously 
dissipated, and I accepted that reason, although I failed to 
perceive then, and do still, what a little wildness in a map 
with a million can signify. But here it is different Captain 
Ffrench, from what I can hear, is all the most exacting 
could desire ; handsome, young, brave, clever-— everything, 
I look to you, Eleanor, to do all you can to please Captain 
Munch." 

" Oh ! mother, mother, hush 1 " Her color has flushed, 
then faded ; a look of pain, of shame contracts her brows ; 
her hands lock and unlock nervously* "You are always 
dreaming, always talkirg, always hoping for this. Why 



18 CHARLTON PLACM. 

should Mr. Charlton have mean! so absurd a thing ? Cap- 
tain Ffrench has no teed to have a wife chosen for him, anil 
thrown at his head. If he is all you say, is he likely to let 
any one choose for him ? And besides " 

"Well, Eleanor, and besides ?" says Mrs. Charlton, aus < 
terely ; but Eleanor rises, biting her lip and flushing guiltily . 
She goes back to the window, where the roses hang and the 
woodbine clambers, just as sweetly as half an hour ago, but 
the soft eyes are only full of impatient, impotent pain now. 

"There can be no ' besides,' " says her mother, still more 
austerely. " And I have made no mistake in Mr. Charlton's 
meaning. It is not my habit to make mistakes. It is Mr. 
Charlton's wish that you should marry his step-son, who is a 
little, just a little, hair-brained about exploring and soldiering,, 
and liable to run away at a moment's notice." 

" And so is to have a wife tied to him as a sort of drag* 
anchor, whether he will or no. Well, mother, I decline be* 
ing that drag-anchor." 

" You will do exactly as you please, of course," retorts ha 
mother, angrily ; " as you always do. But, remember this, 
if you are perverse, if you take to riding any of your ex- 
tremely high horses here, if you refuse the heir of this noble 
estate " 

" Mother, listen to me/' Eleanor Charlton says, and puts 
her hand with a tired gesture to her head ; " do not let us 
quarrel— oh 1 do not this very first day. What you hope 
for cannot be ; there must be a mistake. You know — his 
letter of invitation said so — that he has also invited those 
two young ladies in New York, his distant relatives, as well 
aa we " 

"That but confirms my suspicion, my certainty," inter* 
rupts her mother, calmly. " Richard Ffrench is to have his 
choice — all in the family. Very naturally this great fortune 
ia to be kept with the Charlton rlobd, if possible, and is 
your veins and in theirs alone does it run. Richard Ffrench 



CRARL TON PLACE. 1$ 

b so choose between you. But you are first in the field, and 
to an impressionable young man fresh from wild Northern 
regions—" 

" Mother, hush ! I cannot bear it/ 9 Eleanor cries out 
t{ Oh ! how many times have I listened to this; how many 
times have you not tried to sell me to the highest bidder. How 
many times have I not beea shamed, shamed to the heart! 
by the looks men gave me, after talking to you. Let me 
alone, mother. I will work for you, I will give you all I 
earn, I will never complain ; but for the sake of our com- 
mon womanhood, do not make me blush again before the 
master and son of this house. And hear me once for all — I 
will work until I drop dead from work, I will lie down and 
die of starvation, before I marry any man for his money, and 
his money alone." 

"Hush-h!" says Mrs. Charlton, "hush, for Heaxn's 
sake!" There has been a rap at the door, now there is 
another. She smooths her angry face, rises, opens it, and 
tees a trim and smiling housemaid. 

"Master's compliments, ma'am, and any time you and 
Miss Charlton is ready, he is waiting to show you through 
the grounds." 

"Thank you," Mrs. Charlton responds, suavely. "Tell 

Mr. Charlton we will be down in one moment Eleanor, 

my love, if you are quite ready we will not keep our kind 

host waiting." 

******* 

The rose light of the sunset has faded out into opal and 
gray, the cool of evening has fallen upon the world, at white 
heat all day, when Richard Ffrench turns into the ponderous 
iron gateway, between its couchant lions, and goes up tbe 
long, leafy, tree-shaded drive. The old elms and hemlocks 
meet overhead, and make green gloom even at noonday. 
It is deepest twilight beneath their arcning vault now. He 
emerges in front of the house, a large, quaint, red brick struc- 



tO CHARLTON PLACE. 

tare, set in a great dope of velvety turf and lawn, with wida 
halls, and bay-windows, and open doors. Brilliant beds of 
gladioli, geranium, verbena, heliotrope, and pansy crop up 
everywhere, and off yonder among a very thicket of roses, 
he catches the sound of ladies' voices, the flutter of ladies 
skirts. 

" Humph 1 " says Captain Dick, and stops in his whist- 
ling ; " so they have come. I thought they would. I hope 
the governor-— dear old woman-lover that he is — is happy at 
last." 

An amused look is in the young man's gray eyes, as he 
stands and reconnoitres. The trio examine the floral beau- 
ties, unconscious of the mischievous gaze upon 'hem. 

" As if I didn't see through the transparent ruse — bless his 
innocent old soul — and as if they won't see through it too, 
before they are an hour in the house; I only hope the 
young lady has some sense of humor. And three of them, 
by George 1 I should think the Sultan of all the Turkeys 
must feel something as I will, when the last lot arrives." 

Captain Dick throws back his head and laughs all by him- 
self ; a mellow, ringing, thoroughly joyous laugh. Then he 
turns to escape into the house, for it will not do, he thinks, 
to shock these delicate creatures with a rough jacket and a 
slcich hat, when Fate wills it otherwise The trio turn 
suddenly, advance, see him, and retreat is cut oft. He 
accepts defeat with calmness, and stands and waits. And as 
he waits his eyes widen, dilate, with surprise, for the face of 
the younger lady is the face in colored chalks over the maa» 
fttl at Shaddeck light. 



d FAar TALJL 




CHAPTER IIL 

A FAIRY TALK. 

|NCE upon a time there was a kiig who lived in a 
lovely castle, and had two daughters. The oldest 
was ever so pretty, and her name was the Princess 
Snowflake. The youngest wasn't pretty at all, and her name 
was the Princess Brownskin." 

The narrator pauses for breath. She is an extremely 
young lady, certainly not more than sixteen. The captious 
critic might perchance find fault with her grammar, particu- 
larly as she is a preceptress of youth ; but there are no cap- 
tious critics present — only a very small boy and a smaller girL 

Twilight, the witching hour for fairy tales, fills the room. 
Rainy twilight, too, for the drops patter against the plate 
glass, driven by the sweep of summer wind. 

14 Well, after a long time this great, beautiful king died, 1 ' 
mere is a little touch of sadness in the fresh, cle*a voice ; 
M and the two poor little princesses were thrown all alone 
on tfae world. They went away from the lovely castle into 
the big, noisy, nasty, ugly, horrid city— Flossy 1 let 
pussy's tail alone. Lex! I am watching you. You are 
felling asleep, sir, just as fast as you can fall" 

"I ain't!" says Lex, indignantly; "I hear every word 
Was the horrid city New York, Vera ? " 

" Oh, you stupid little boy ! as if there ever were any 
princesses in New York. No, this was in Fairyland. Well, 
and then these two princesses had to go to work as if they 
had never been princesses at alL The ugly little Princess 
Brownskin didn't mind it so much, because she only had to 
teach two little children, and that isn t hard, you know, bat 
the poor pretty Princess Snowflake " 



92 a FAIRY TALE. 

"Vera," says Flossy, opening her baby eyes, "was tin 
udiy pwincess you t " 

11 There never was,* says the young lady despairingly, 
"such a ridiculous small girl as you, Flossy 1 Of course 
not Who ever said I was a princess. Well — where was I f 
Oh ! at the Princess Snowflake. Lex, you are pulling 
pussy's tail now. I declare I won't tell another word. Til 
get right up and light the gas." 

But at this dismal threat both children set up a cry of 
misery that caused their stern monitress to relent. 

" Vera, child," says an anxious voice. A door suddenly 
opens, and there is a rustle of silk, " Are you here ? Oh, 
you are. I want you to go to Madame Lebrun's for me. 
What are you doing ? " 

"Telling Floss and Lex a fairy tale," answers the ex- 
tremely young lady, laughing and rising from the hearth-rug, 
upon which she has been coiled. "Shall I light the gas, 
Mrs. Trafton?" 

"Yes, please, and ring for Filomena — it is time those 
children were in the nursery. Lex, if you cry, sir, you shall 
be whipped.* 

"I want to hear about the pretty Princess Snowflake/ 
pipes little Lex. 

"Want hear about pwetty Pwincess Nofake," echoes 
little Flossy. 

"Here, Filomena," says the lady, calmly, twitching *er 
silk skirts from Lex's clinging fingers, " take those children 
upstairs directly. Vera, my dear, let nurse light the gas, 
you will strain your arms if you stretch up like that. Yes, 
I want you to go to madame's directly; she promised to 
send my dress home at five, and here it is after six, and not 
a sign of it yet But it is exactly like her. You must go 
and try it on, please ; our figures are so much alike sue will 
be able to telL I am sorry it rains," walking to the window 
and looking drearily out " I would send the carriage, only 



A FAIRY TALE. 

Mi. Trafton is so tiresome about taking oat the horses in the 

wet, But you can take a stage " 

" Oh, I don't mind the rain," says Vera brightly ; " I 
rather like it, in fact, with waterproof and rubbers, and I 
shall be glad to see Dot. I am to try on, and wait for alter- 
ations, if any are needed, I suppose, Mrs. Trafton ? " 

" Yes, my dear ; and if you have to wait very long, make 
madame send some one back with you. Tiresome old thing t 
she never does finish anything when she promises." 

The gas is lit now, and Lex and Flossy, wailing loudly fat 
their lost princesses, are borne off by the French nurse. 
The pretty room, "curtained, and close, and warm," is 
known as the school-room, but in it there is more of Grimm's 
Goblins than of grammar, Hans Andersen than horn-books. 
Mrs. Trafton, a pale, faded, young woman, stands looking 
out at the fast falling rain, and in the middle of the room, 
directly under the chandelier, is Miss Vera. She is a girl of 
sixteen, and hardly looks that, with a soft cut, childish, inno- 
cent sort of face, a profusion of short, black hair, a pair of 
dark eyes that laugh frankly on all the world, and small, 
white teeth that flash forth merrily for very little provoca- 
tion. She is thin and dark, too unformed and angular for 
good looks, but a bright brown fairy, and not in the slightest 
like any one's ideal of a governess. She looks as if she 
might very well go into the school-room herself for three or 
four years, and be the better for it 

She encases herself in a waterproof, crushes a little straw 
hat down on all her soft curls, and trips away as gayly as 
though it were a sunlit noonday. It is raining quite heavily, 
but she catches an omnibus at the corner, and goes rattling 
down town to the great dressmaking emporium on Four- 
teenth Street The city lamps are lit, and shine through 
the wef drift of the rain. The pavements are greased with 
that slimy black mud, dear from long association, to the 
heart of the New Yorker. People hurry by with gloomy 



94 A FAIMY TALE. 

faces under their umbrellas. Vent gets oat at die corner of 
Fourteenth Street, unfurls her parachute, tiptoes with much 
distaste through the sticky mud, and up the steps of Madame 
Lebrun's establishment A colored man in livery opens die 
door, and Miss Vera smiles a friendly smile of acquaintance- 
ship. 

"De do, Jackson? Dreadful sort of evening, isn't it? 
Is my sister in ? " 

" I presume so, Miss Vera. This way, Miss Vera, if yon 
please; the reception-rooms are engaged. Step in here one 
moment, and I will inform Miss Lightwood." 

The gentlemanly Jackson ushers her into a small room, 
and leaves her. She has to wait for some time, and is grow- 
ing impatient, when the door quickly opens and her sister 
enters. 

" Vera 1 " she exclaims, " Jackson told me Oh ! here 

you are, I did not see you for a moment. Mrs. Trafton 
has sent for her ball-dress, I suppose ? Well, she might have 
spared you the trouble, for it went five minutes before you 
came. But it is just as well, for if you had not come, I must 
have gone to see you. Vera, I have such news ! * 

She stops and clasps her hands, and looks at her sister 
with shining eyes. She is small, slight, and excessively 
pretty ; a young woman, not a girl, with a pale, delicate 
face, a profusion of light hair elaborately " done," and set 
off by a knot of crimson silk. Her eyes are as blue as foi- 
get-me-nots, her complexion as milky white as a baby's. A 
beautiful little woman, but somehow looking every day of 
her six-and-twenty years. 

Vera opens wide her black eyes. 

"News, Dot? Whsrefrom? Who from? What about?" 

" Look here 1 " Dot draws from her pocket a letter, and 
unfolds it triumphantly. u Do you see this letter ? It came 
this morning, and that is why I meant to go and see you to* 
night Vera, you never could guess whom it is from ?" 



A FAIRY TALE. 2$ 

" Never/ says Vera, with an air of conviction ; * I novel 
guessed a riddle of any kind in my life. Who ? " 

" From Mr. Charlton — the Honorable Robert Charlton, 
of Charlton Place, St Ann's," says Dot with unction, "and 
it is an invitation to both of ns to go there and spend (he 
summer. Both of ,us, Vera. He says expressly — where is 
the place — bring your half-sister, Miss Veronica, with you ; 
I am sure the poor little thing must need a glimpse of 
green fields and blue water after her prolonged course of 
stony city streets, Come as soon as you can, and enclosed 
please find check for travelling expenses. Vera, how much 
do you suppose the check is for ? Three — hundred— dol- 
lars!" 

Vera snatches up her hat and waves it above her 
head. "Hooray! Your Mr. Charlton is a prince — long 
life to himl Three hundred dollars, green fields and 
blue " 

" Be quiet, Vera. Do, for pity's sake, get rid of your 
romping propensities before we go. Mr. Charlton evidently 
looks upon you as a little girl, and I am sure you act like 
one, and a hoidenish one at that A young lady of sixteen 

past " 

* "Oh, never mind that, Dot— don't scold. Read me 
some more of the letter — he does express himself so beauti- 
fully ! ' Inclosed please find check for travelling expenses.' 
Could anything be more exquisite than that f " 

" There is nothing else in particular," says Dot, folding it 
up and replacing it in her pocket " He mentions that Mrs. 
Charlton and her daughter from New Orleans are also com- 
ing. He speaks casually, I believe, of his step-son Richard 
Ffrt*nch, who has lately returned from somewhere — Lapland, 
or Greenland, or the North Pole." 

" Lapland, Greenland, or the North Pole," sighs Vera, 
fanning herself with her hat, "how nice and cool they 

sound. I wonder Richard Ffrench d'dn't stay there. Mr 

a 



i 



•6 A FAIRY TALE. 

Charlton's ■tcp-ton— urn — is he his tnfy son, his tab 
Dot?" 

u I presume so/' Dot answers, and a demure smile dim 
pies her pretty face. 

" It is a very lucky thing/' says Vera, regarding her sistet 
gravely, " that you are pretty. It would be a shame for 
two ugly girls to inflict themselves on one house, and 
a rich young man there too. It is not to be supposed 
that Richard Ffrench has left his heart's best affections 
with a Laplander, or a Greenlander, or a North Polet 
And that dress is awfully becoming to you, Dot. Navy 

blue, and dark red in the hair Dot, when are wc 

going ? " 

" There is no need of delay. I told madame at once, 
and though she regrets, and so on, she has to consent I 
shall use the money of course, and I see no reason why we 
should not start next week. Now, if you are going home, 
you had better go ; it is getting late, and raining hard Tell 
Mrs. Trafton— or, no. I will call to-morrow, and tell hei 
myself and then we can go down to Stewart's together foi 
our things." 

"To Stewart's together for our things," repeats Vera, in 
a sort of dreamy ecstasy ; " it is lovely, it is heavenly, it is 
one of my fairy tales come true. The Princess Snowflake 
shall go to St. Ann's, and Prince Richard Ccsur de Lion 
shall have the prettiest wife in all the world. Shall you 
weai white silk, or a travelling suit when you are married, 
Dot, and may I stay among the green fields and blue sea 
forever and ever ? Yes, it is a fairy tale, with castle, and 
prince, and everything just as it ought to be. Shopping 
to morrow at Stewart's ! No, I cannot realize it Good- 
night, Dot." 

" Good-night, goose, ' laughs Dot, and sees her to the 
door. This little dark girl is the one thing in all the world 
that Theodora Light nrood loves. 



A MAN'S LETTER. 2? 

Verm goes home through the wet, wind-beaten, and 
■plashed city streets, and the world is all rose-color, the 
pavements of crystal and jasper, the rayless night sky ashint 
with the light of hope. She is living a fairy taLe ; the en- 
chanted palace awaits, the dashing Prince Charming is there, 
a long golden summer lies before 

" And the Princess Snowflake married Prince Richard, 
the Laplander/' cries Vera, gleefully, giving wakeful Lex a 
npturous hug, " and they lived happy forever after," 



CHAPTER IV. 



A MAN'S LITTI1 




From Captain Richard Ffrench to Dr. Emil EngUhart. 

» 

|ND so, after a year in Baffin's Bay, a winter in St 
Petersburg, after linking with London belles, and 
after waltzing with Viennese beauties, without risk 
to wind or limb, you slip on an innoxious orange-peel in New 
York streets, and manage to sprain your ankle. Great is 
Allah, and wonderful are the ways of Emil Englehart I All 
the same, old boy, it must be no end of a bore to be tied ~p 
by the leg, just at this time when there is so much to be done 
about the expedition which nobody but you can do. As it 
is of no use crying over spilled milk, however, you may as 
well dry your eyes, cease your howls, put your snapped 
ankle under the nearest water-spout, and improve your mind 
dnang the next fortnight by reading hard at Spanish. I am 
getting on myself; I have a den out here in the * vasty deep, 
a little house about the size to hang from your watch-chain, 
perched on a rock, and in it I spend my days. My nights, 
when the moon is at the full. I devote to the toilers of the 



98 A MAN'S LETTER. 

sea. Such has been my life for the past fix weeks \ peace* 
ml, virtuous, studious, monotonous ; but, alas I 

M ' Nothing can be as it has been before. 
Better to call it, only not the saae^ 



M A change is coming, has come ; woman has entered my 
Eden, and the bliss of uninterrupted days of reading and 
drawing, of smoking peaceful calumets in the best parlor of 
the Manor House, o' evenings of dining in a pea-jacket, is 
at an end. If I threw the house out of the window, it would 
be good and admirable in the eyes of the dear old governor, 
but the delicate female mind, the sensitive female olfactories 
must be shocked by no deed of mine. Henceforward free- 
dom is gone, and I return to the trammels of civilization and 
tail-coats. 

44 1 have never told you atxmt the governor, have I, nor 
how I come to have a home hereabouts? No, I don't think 
I have. We always found enough to do, and say, and think, 
without going into autobiography. But now the chained 
tiger is to be soothed, the sick surgeon to be charmed out of 
his loneliness. I am ordered, under penalty of bastinado and 
bow-string, to write long letters, amusing letters, and my lord, 
the Sultan, shall be obeyed. Long they shall be, amusing 
they may be, if you find yourself weakened intellectually, as 
well as physically, by your sprained ankle. 

44 Fourteen years ago, then, I went home one vacation 
from school, to find my mother transferred from her cottage 
to a handsome home, and to be introduced to a tall, spare, 
elderly gentleman, 4 frosty but kindly/ as my new papa. I 
was about thirteen at the time, with very pronounced ideas 
on the subject of step-fathers, and, for the matter of that, on 
most other subjects. 

44 4 You must be sure to call Mr. Charlton papa, Dick, 
my mother said to me, confidentially. ' You don't know how 
good he is, and how fond he is prepared to be of you. Whea 



A MAN'S LMTTEJL *9 

pro are going to bed, to-night, you will go up to him very 
nicely and say, " Good-night, papa." 

" I listened, committed myself to nothing, and revolved 
die matter all day. Bedtime came, I kissed my mother, who 
looked anxious, and went up to my new lather, who sat 
beaming benignly upon me through his double-barrelled eye* 
glass. 

" ' Mr. Charlton, 9 I began, ' mother says you are my 
father, and I am to call you so. Now, that cannot be. No 
fellow can have two fathers, and I would rather not' 

" Dick 1 " my mother exclaimed, in dismay. 

" * Never mind, Dick,' Mr. Charlton said, laughing ; « I 
like his honesty and his logic So I am not to be adopted as 
father, Dick— what then is it to be ? " 

u ' Thank you, sir. You were governor of a Western State 
some years ago, mother says, and if you wouldn't mind, I 
should like to call you governor. Lots of fellows I know, 
call their fathers that, regular out-and-out fathers, you know. 
May I, sir?' 

" ' Certainly, Dick. Governor let it be, by all means,' re- 
sponded Mr. Charlton, still laughing; and so we shook hands, 
and that delicate matter was settled once and for all. 

" I need not tell you what sort of father I found ; no man 
could have loved his own son better. My poor mother died, 
and from that hour his affection seemed to redouble. All 
that I have, or am, I owe him. Men don't much talk or 
even think of this sort of thing, but the tie between us is one 
strong and deep. All the same, I am the plague of his life ; 
my Arab propensity for folding my tent and silently stealing 
away, my Bohemian instincts when at home, are alike the 
bother of hi? existence. It came very near being a serious 
matter, last year, when I went with you all to the Polar Sea. 
The Honduras Expedition he will not even hear o( and thai 
is why, principally, I have fitted up this Robinson Crusoe 
castle out in Shaddeck Bay, to keep my reading and sketch" 



SO A MAN'S LETTER. 

ing oat of his sight The place was formerly a sort of be* 
eon for fishers and whalers, but ldhg ago was deserted, and 
is as isolated as heart can wish. He wants me to take to 
one of the learned professions, his own for instance — law — 
and stay respectably at home. A man ought to settle, he 
says, at seven-and-twenty ; and so he ought, I suppose, but 
there must be vagabond blood in me, for settling is the last 
thing I want to think of. I tried it once for six months, and 
grew restless and cross-grained as the devil. Since he came 
into the great Charlton fortune, his monomania for keeping 
me at home has grown to giant proportions. He has be 
come rabid — a man of one idea, and that is why he has sent 
far but I have not come to that yet. 

" It ought to be flattering, this rampant affection, and is, 
and I love the dear old fellow ; still I cannot reconcile my- 
self to the idea of ranging in this dull-as-death little country 
town, and settling down to turnips and prize pumpkins, 
short horns, steam plows, and top dressing, militia drill, and 
cider drinking. Ungrateful, I know, but as Dr. Watts re- 
marks, ' it is my nature to. 9 

" Have you ever visited St. Ann's ? It is about ninety 
miles from New York, and if ever the doctors send you to 
grass, turn you out to vegetate, not live, by all means come 
here. It is a finished town. Thirty years ago it stopped 
growing, and has never advanced an inch since. And for 
that very reason it is a charming place, with old homesteads 
embowered in trees, spreading orchards, golden and ruddy 
with fruit, old-fashioned gardens, where all sweet-smelling 
things run riot, yellow fields of waving grain, long, white, 
lonely roads, sleepy, Sunday stillness in perpetuity; and 
at its feet the everlasting sea, wash, wish, washing. And 
among its other products, Vestal virgins abound ; the num 
b*~ of old maids is something pathetic. They muster strong 
on Sunday afternoons, up to the white meeting-house on the 
hill— on« ceases to view polygamv as an evil, when one 



A MMMTS LETTBM. 3> 

watches them cm their winding way, as Cried aid out of data 
as the bonnets they wear, with patient hands folded over 

unappropriated hearts. 

"Once St Ann's was a place of bustle and business, and 
sent out its fleet of whalers yearly, and in those days John 
Charlton made his fortune, built a house, died, and left all 
to his younger brother. When my day comes, I am told, I 
am to have it all, if; meantime, I behave myself; settle to law 
and monotony, marry a wife, and stay at home. 

" Marry a wife I My dear Englehart, do you remember — 
I think you do — that girl who gave lessons at your sister's in 
New Orleans ? A tall, Madonna-like maiden, a sort of human 
calla hly, with serene eyes, passionless and pure ? Your little 
nieces called her mademoiselle, nothing but mademoiselle, 
just as they dubbed me ' Uncle Dick ' — you remember ? Well, 
she is here. Her name is Eleanor Charlton, and she is what 
a girl with such eyes should be. Her father was Mr. Charlton's 
cousin, once removed, and he has sent for her to come and 
spend the summer. Her mother is with her, a^ majestic 
matron ; bland as sweet oil, but with an eye of stone, and a 
pair of cruelly tight lips. I see her daughter wince, some- 
times, under that stony glance. They came three days ago, 
and I met them one evening in the grounds. There were 
mutual exclamations — ' Mademoiselle 1 ' * Uncle Dick 1 
then a burst of laughter, a charming blush on the lady's 
part, explanations on the gentleman's, and an adjournment 
to dinner. After dinner there was music ; she plays Bach, 
Beethoven, Mozart, this poor Miss Eleanor, who *i a music- 
teacher by profession. I don't affect the piano-forte as a 
rule, but I like such playing as this. The violin came down 
after a little, and the governor beamed through his lenses 
■hone, scintillated, was radiant. Mrs. Charlton, knows how 
to keep her dignified face in order, but I caught more thav 
once, a 'Bless you my, children' look, out of the hard, 
austere eyes. As for mademoiselle — I like her, Englehart 



fS A MAN'S LMTTMML 

I always knew I should like her If I got a chin—, 
caught myself revolving, last night, the practicability #f Uff 
on land, of tax-paying, land-draining, stock-breeding, horse- 
breaking, cradle-rocking, and all the rest of it If any one 
could make it worth while, it would be this young woman. 
I know, and she knows, and we all know, what she is here 
for. Bless the governor 1 'Take her, you dog, and be 
happy 1 ' shines forth in every wrinkle of his dear, kindly, 
handsome old face. But she holds herself very far of£ and I 
like her all the better for it And I don't know. And 

don't you fill my place in the scientific corps yet awhile — 

******* 

" I left off last night rather abruptly, and to-day the plot 
has thickened. I laugh by myself as I write. Two more 
have come this afternoon. I have not been presented yet, 
but look for that ceremony to-morrow. Young ladies of 
course, cousins again, but this time so very far removed that 
the cousinship will hardly do to swear by. Once upon a 
time, a Catherine Charlton— so runneth the legend — married 
a Southern planter, and the ' consekins of that manoovre,' to 
quote Sam Weller, was a daughter. This is the elder of the 
two. The Southern planter died, and in the fulness of time 
the widow wedded again, a Cuban, with a yard long pedigree 
and quantities of blue blood, and another daughter saw the 
light These half-sisters are our new arrivals. Father and 
mother dead, wealth lost in civil war, earning their living in 
New York in the old weary ways, sewing and teaching. 
Oh I these poor little women who work I It is breaking 
butterflies, putting humming-birds in harness. My soul stirs 
wfth an infinite compassion for them all. 

'Yesterday afternoon I went out with my henchman, 
Daftly, and drifted about on the high seas, lazy and happy, 
my mind a blank, my conscience at ease, my digestion a! 
Hs best, until the red sun set, and the white moon rose. 
r* Idy — not christened Daddy by his godfathers and god 



4 MAN'S LMTTJUL JJ 

mothers in baptism, bat yclept ' Daddy-long-legs, by sundry 
small boys, for obvious reasons — Daddy took the curs in the 
gray of the evening and rowed me home. The house was 
all alight, the windows all open, music and woman's laughtet 
floated out into the pleasant summer night I stood under 
some trees and saw them all — a pretty picture. Dinnofiraa 
over, the governor and Mrs. Charlton sat coinfortab%£jp a 
corner at cards. Miss Charlton was at a little table making 
something — point lace I think she calls it She almost 
always wears black, which becomes her, and very few orna- 
ments. She needs none, and knows it perhaps ; the ' flower 
fece/ the 'stilly tranquil manner,' the coils of silky chestnut 
hair — they are enough. She looked a household sprite, a 
fireside fairy, an angel of hearth and home, wttiJSg there. J 
declare to you, the old strong instinct, olderH^m original 
sin — ' it is not good for man to be alone ' — awoke within me 
for the first time. And then a shining vision came between 
me and her, something in white and blue, a stage fairy, with 
loose golden hair, and a waist like the stem of a wineglass. 
I looked for the other and saw a little girl, a bright brownie, 
with black eyes, and a real girl's bewitching laugh. Strange 
to say, I felt no desire to intrude my rough masculine pres- 
ence among all that fair femininity. I stood, I gazed, I 
admired, for a while, and then I came up to my room. And 
here I am ; and you, most puissant, enjoy the benefits of my 
passing misogyny. It is pleasant to have these young womec 
in the house, it brightens things and there is always Shad- 
deck Light when the sweetness begins to cloy. It is part of 
my coarse-grained nature, I suppose, but even as a boy I 
never had a taste for lollypops ; and as a man, a little, a 
very little, of young ladies' society goes a great way. They 
•o seldom have anything to say for themselves, and if they 
are pretty to look at, as they generally are, it is a pky to spoil 
the illusion. Miss Charlton can talk, but mostly she doesn't ; 
I find her silent, and have a suspicion mat she minks, ud 



34 BEFORE BREAKFAST. 

reads Ruskin and Stuart MUL As for the oth ers one is t 
fluffy haired peri, and the second a dark fairy, ' too low for a 
high praise, too brown for a fair praise, and too little for a 
great praise 1 • Further particulars in my next 

" If there is anything I can do for you, old boy, command 
me. I can ian up at any time, there is nothing to detain 
me. In spite of all the nonsense I have set down here, the 
Central American Expedition is very near this heart, and 
the sooner you get that dislocated limb in working order the 
better. I hope nothing will occur to postpone things ; Sep- 
tember will be a good month for the start My one regret is, 
the vexation my going will be to the governor ; but to stay 
here, idly pottering around, playing croquet, drinking after* 
noon tea, fiddling in time to the piano, driving about in 
basket carriages, and waiting for dead men's shoes — that 
way madness lies. Drop me a screed; a man may write 
with one ankle, may he not ? And believe me, as ever, 

"Richard Caryl Ffrejich." 



CHAPTER V. 

BEFORE BREAKFAST. 

[T is lovely," says Vera, " it is delicious, it is all my 
fancy painted it, it is the Castle of the Sleeping 
Beauty. An 4 that reminds me, Dot, I wonder il 
the Sleeping Beauty is still asleep, or whether he came horn* 
at all last night ! " 

" Very uncivil of him in any case," responds Mfes Light- 
wood, " not to put in an appearance even for one moment, 
knowing we were expected, too. Mrs. Charlton took care 
to impress upon me, with evident satisfaction, that at wis his 




BEFORE BREAKFAST. 35 

?ery first absence since their arrival. But a little rudeness, 
more or less, what can it signify to two persons in our sta- 
tion in life ? " 

Miss Lightwood yawns sleepily as she says it, and turns 
over for another nap. She is in bed, and looks rather pret- 
tier there than out of it, certain fine lines of discontent that 
mar the expression of her waking hours, being effaced by 
slumber. Her cheeks flushed rose-pink, her fair hair all 
loose and damp, her blue eyes humid with drowsiness. She 
does not look as though last night's defection preyed upon 
her. Vera, always one of the earliest of early birds, stands 
at the window looking out over waving trees, rainbow pas* 
tures, velvet slopes of sward, as if she could never look hex 
filL 

" After all, Dot, it must be a blessed thing to be rich, 
and have a home like this. Do be just as nice to Captain 
Ffrench when you meet him as you know how " 

But Dot is serenely asleep, and Vera takes her hat and 
makes her way down-stairs, and out of the house. It was 
almost dsrk last evening when they arrived, and in the bus- 
tle of wecome and dinner, and the first shyness of meeting 
perfectly unknown people in a perfectly unknown aoose, she 
has seen very little. But this morning it has broken upon 
her, a very dream of beauty. Her Southern home nas faded 
into a hazy memory ; for years the poor child has known 
nothing but the stony, unbeautiful city streets. And here are 
wildernesses of greenery, here are great stone urns ablaze 
with color, here are beds and beds of mignonette, of pansy, 
of geranium, here are thickets of roses, and trees of fuchsia, 
here are statues gleaming whitely, and gold aud silver fish 
in mimic ponds. Over her head is rising the dazzling July 
sun, afar off she catches the flash of the sea, rod smells its 
•alt, strong sweetness — the sea that she has never looked 
upon but in pictures and dreams. 

"Oh! * lighs Vera, in a rapture of gladness, u it is to* 



36 BEFORE BREAKFAST. 

much. How will we ever go back to New York? Heavea 
must be like this." 

She banishes the untimely thought of New York. She it 
sixteen, the summer is before her, Dot is pretty and Captaiu 
Ffrench is only mortal. Which is Captain Ffrench's window 
she wonders, and is he sluggishly sleeping away this paradis 
iacal morning ? It is joy enough to be alive on such a day 
A thousand little birds are singing around her, the perfume 
of heliotrope and rose is everywhere, she breaks off sprays 
as she goes and makes a bouquet, singing without knowing 
that she sings : 

" • Alas ! how easily things go wrong ; 
A sigh too much, or a kiss too long, 
And there follows a mist and a sweeping rain. 
And life is never the same again.' " 

Singularly inappropriate, but she gives no thought to what 
she is singing. Nothing could ever go wrong in this Eden. 
There would always be the birds, and the trees, and the flow- 
ers, and the sea — Oh t the sea 1 she must go there and look 
upon it for the first time. 

She goes, and it breaks upon her with a sense of might 
and loveliness, that holds her silent and spell-bound. 

" It is like a dream — like a dream ! " she whispers, " Oh I 
you great, beautiful, fearful sea ! " It is better after all, than 
the green loveliness of the land, and she goes on and down, 
until she stands where the shining baby waves creep up to 
her very feet. It is a sort of creek, and a boat is moored to 
a stake — a pretty boat, all white and blue, with a smiling! 
saucy face painted on the stern, and the name in gilt, The 
Nude. 

11 Ah, yes," Vera says aloud, nodding to the Nixie, " you 
are very pretty, and very smiling, and very deceitful, just like 
the water itself — mermaids, and undines, and kelpies, and 
the rest of you fishy people always are. But I wish 1 could 



BEFORE BREAKFAST. JJ 

go out in yon, all the same, and have a tail refore breakfast 
I never had a sail in my life, before breakfast or after." 

" /am going out," says a voice, " this is my boat I wiU 
take you, if yon like." 

Vera looks around astonished. A man is standing on the 
bank above her, a young man, his hands in his pockets, 
calmly regarding her. She is not nervous, nor easily discon- 
certed as a rule — she is too much of a child — and she is not 
disconcerted now. 

"Was I talking aloud? I didn't know it What was I 
saying?" 

He comes down the bank and proceeds to unmoor the 
boat. 

"That you would like a sail before breakfast I am going 
for a sail before breakfast, and I will be delighted if you will 
come." 

The boat is unfastened now, the oars shipped, and he 
stands waiting. It is a strong temptation — how sunlit, dim* 
pled, lovely, the water looks. And it is such a pretty boa' 
And it could not be much harm. And the woman who best 
tates is proverbially lost. She lifts her dark child's eyes 
with all a child's frank fearlessness, and looks A him. He 
is good-looking, he has pleasant eyes, and a smile Vera likes. 
He looks like a gentleman. He holds out his hand. " Come,' 9 
he says, and she goes. 

"I wonder what Dot will say? " she thinks, " I wonder 
what Dot will do? It cannot be much harm to gofora saiL 
I wonder who he is ? " 

Of the world and its ways Vera kaows nothing, absolutely 
nothing. She is as utterly ignorant of Its convenances as 
though she were six instead of sixteen. This is entirely 
new, and beyond measure delightful, that is all she knows; 
it smacks of adventure, and there has been a dreary dearth 
of adventure in little Vera's life. And he is very good-look- 
ing, she observes, glancing sideways under her thick black 



3$ BEFORE BREAKFAST. 

lashes— tall, and brown, and strong, with bright dark eye* 
and a subtle smile. Subtle, in the sense that Vera does not 
quite understand it ; he has rather the look of laughing at 
her, and she is prepared to resent it if she finds it so. H? 
ought to say something ; this silence is growing embarrass- 
ing. She leans over, as every heroine she ever read of does, 
and dips her fingers in the water. It is delightfully cool, and 
Ihe summer morning clouds, like rolls of white wool, are re- 
flected in the clear, green depths. Over yonder the sun, just 
risen, turns all the east crimson and flushes the girl's face 
with rosy gilded light 

" Oh ! " she sighs aloud, " it is like being in a new world 1 
It is like being born again. I never imagined anything like 
it How delicious this breeze is, how salt it smells. How 
I wish Dot were here." 

"Who is Dot?" 

" My sister. What island is this ? Oh, what a dear little 
house ! And some one lives in it actually, out here in the 
middle of the ocean. Look at the smoke." 

" I see. That is Shaddeck Light, and although a light- 
house no longer, some one lives there. I know the person, 
and if you like we will stop there before we go back." 

"Will you though? I should like it of all things. Such 
a dot of a cottage ; I once had a doll's house nearly as large. 
But it must be lonely, I should think. Who lives there, 
please ? " 

" Richard Ffrench." 

u Richard Ffrench I— Rich— ard Ffrench I " Vera's brown 
•ye* open in wide wonder. " Mr. Charlton's step-son ? You 
never mean to say it is that Richard Ffrench ? " 

" Never heard of any other, and he is Mr. Charlton's step, 
•on." 

Vsra regards him gravely for a moment. The sail has not 
been hoisted, he is pulling steadily against the tide, in loog, 
•trtnp strokes, as if he were enjoying himself 



BEPORM BREAKFAST. 

« Kwknow Richard Ffrench?' 

M I have that honor.* 

" Captain Ffirench — he is a captain, is he net ' 

"Captain ones, captain always, I suppose. He z* 
manded a company, I believe, during the late war. He k 
generally dubbed Captain Dick." 

"Well* then, Captain Dick, being Mr. Charlton's son, 
should live at Charlton Place, should he not ? " 

" Naturally, if he were like any one else, which he is not 
All half civilized people have barbarous instincts, and can 
never live in decent dwellings. Ffrench, for some such rea- 
son, spends most of his time here." 

" What does he do ? " 

Captain Dick's acquaintance shrugs his shoulders. 

"Who knows ? He smokes a good deal, and loafs about 
among the fishermen. I have never heard that he does any- 
thing more useful." 

" Is he there now ? " 

" Not likely. He goes home to sleep, as a general thing, 
though I have known him to spend nights at Shaddeck Light 
Your interest does Captain Dick much honor." 

" Well, you see," says Vera, nowise abashed, " I am down 
from the city to spend the summer at Charlton, and as I 
have not seen him yet, it is natural. One is always inter- 
ested in the people one is to live with, you know." 

11 Undoubtedly. I heard that two young ladies had 
arrived by yesterday's late train. Such an event makes a 
stir m St Ann's. But it is odd you have not seen Ffrench. 
I know he went home last night ; I saw him go." 

" He did not think it worth while coming to the drawrog* 
room then. Very likely it is as Dot says " 

u What does Dot say ? " 

" Never mind," with dignity ; " perhaps being half-civil 
bed accounts for it." 

" Or, perhaps he was afraid. Two lovely young ladies 



BEFORE BREAKFAST. 



are ray formidable sort of people for one bashful man m 
encounter, single-handed and alone." 

" Is Richard Ffrench bashful ? " 

"Painfully so. Depend upon it, he was afraid, and 
sneaked upstairs to bed" 

"At all events," says Vera, resentfully, "he was not 
afraid of Miss Charlton. From what her mother said to 
Dora — to my sister — last night, he and Miss Eleanor have 
got on remarkably well Not that it matters at all. Cap- 
tain Ffrench 1 s comings and goings can be of no consequence 
to Dot and me." 

" Certainly not Besides, he is going away almost directly, 
and a very good riddance I should say. A great hulking 
fellow like that is always a mistake in a household of young 
ladies. If /were in his place now " 

" Ah ! " Vera says, mischievously, " if you only were 1 
You are not bashful, are you? You wouldn't sneak up 
stairs to bed, would you 1 " Her joyous laugh rings out 
suddenly. " I don't believe one word you have been tell- 
ing me. He isn't bashful, he isn't hulking, he isn't half-civ- 
ilised, he doesn't sneak to his room. I know all about him, 
and I mean to like him. I like him already. He is a sol- 
dier, and I like soldiers ; he is a hunter, and I love hunters ; 
fee is an explorer, and I adore explorers. Now what are 
you turning us round for? Are you going back ? " 

" We are going to visit the den of your lion. He is not 
there, and so we need not be bored by his roarings." 

" But some one is, there he is now." 

"That is only Daddy — the lion's keeper. Take caret 
let me help you. One jump — ah, capitally done 1 In Dick 
Ffrench* £ name I bid you welcome." 

He throws open the house door, waves back curious, 
staring Daddy, and follows her in. Vera's quick, bright 
eyes dance over everything in a second, and pounce upas 
the picture on the chimney-piece. 



BEFORE BREAKFAST. 41 

* It is Eleanorl n she exclaims, " it is Miss Charlton 1* 

"Is it indeed?" says the young man. "Then Miss 
Charlton is a pretty girL Will yon sit down ? Don't you 
smell coffee ? Amuse yourself with the books, and I will 
go and get you some." 

He goes. Vera watches him curiously. The coffee is a 
happy thought, it smells uncommonly good, and her water 
trip has made her painfully hungry. In two minutes she 
has turned over every article in the room — then her escort 
enters with a tray and a cup of the fragrant berry. 

44 1 hope it is to your liking," he says, " and strong enough. 
What do you think of Ffrench's growlery ? * 

" I think you are very much at home in it," retorts Vera ; 
" what do you suppose Captain Ffrench will say to this in- 
vasion? " 

"Really I have not troubled myself to suppose. He 
ought to feel honored — /would in his place. I never envied 
any fellow before this morning. As to my being at home, 
I mostly am— everywhere." 

So Vera thinks. His tall stature and bread shoulders 
seem to fill the little room. He partakes of no coffee him* 
self —he obtains permission instead to light one of Captain 
Dick's pipes, two or three dozen of which are ranged on 
shelves. He sits on the door-step and smokes. The sun 
is high in the sky by this time, and the first crisp coolness is 
going off 

The seven o'clock bell rings in St. Ann's for the laborers. 
A few little boats float past on the rippleless tide. Soft, 
limpid waves wash over the pebbles, Sunday stillness is 
overall. 

" It is heavenly I " says Vera, with a long-drawn breath. 
It is the third or fourth time this morning that she has made 
die same remark, but there is simply nothing else to be said. 
14 1 never spent such a morning, but I am ready to go now 
whenever you like." 



42 BEFORE 9REAJCFAST. 

Her companion rises. 

"Yes," he says, "it will be as well not to let Ffrenck 
catch us here, and I suppose he will be on hand shortly." 

u Would he mind ? " 

" Well, he is something of a bear, but it is not that 
Living in the same house he will see enough of you before 
long, while I — I wonder if I will ever see you again ? " 

" I don't see why not/' replies straightforward Vera, " if 
you are Captain Ffrench's friend. St. Ann's and Charlton 
Place are not such an immensity apart." 

" No. And if I come you will be glad to- Bat 
there are three young ladies ; I shall not know for whom to 
ask." 

He says it innocently, and Vera does not see the mali- 
cious gray eyes that are laughing at her, under the straw 
hat. 

" My name is Vera," she answers, in all good faith, " and 
— yes — I think I — shall be glad to see you. And I should 
like you to take Dot — to take my sister out as well, the 
next time. Her chest is not very strong, and it would do 
her good. Will you ? " 

" Only too happy, if Miss Dot will do me that honor. 
But I am not sanguine — you will forget me. Ffrench will 
monopolize you, the three of you. No one else will hkve a 
chance. You see I know that fellow." 

" I thought you said he was bashful, mortally afraid of 
young ladies." 

" Oh, well, that is only at first It wears off, and then 
that sort of people are the worst — always in extremes. Bash- 
ful fools, or selfish beasts. And then, you know you like 
hun* you love him, Jou adore him, and all the rest of it 
No, I nave no hope." 

" Still I wouldn't despair too soon, if I were you," says 
Vera, smiling coquettishly, the instinct awakening in her as 
mouse-murder awakes in the playful kitten. " Come just 



BEFORE BREAKFAST 43 

the same, and we will see. Two at a time, I shook think, 
are as many as even Captain Dick can attend to. Here wc 
are. I never enjoyed anything so much, and I am sure I 
am very much obliged to you." 

" The enjoyment has been mine. Let me help yon up 
the bank. Ah " 

The puzzling smile deepens into a laugh. Vera follows 
his eye, and sees coming toward them Mr. Charlton, her 
sister, and Eleanor. They are within the Charlton grounds ; 
Vera's hat is oft, she is swinging it by its rosy ribbons, all the 
soft silky curls are pushed off her warm forehead. Dora, in 
a pale blue morning dress, she notices with pleasure, is at 
her prettiest, Miss Charlton looks amused and surprised, and 
Mr. Charlton beams upon her as he draws near. Evidently 
she has not done wrong. 

* What I " he says, " my little Vera, and abroad with the 
lark— nm a lark, if I may say so. Your sister thought you 
were lost, but I knew better. And you look like a rose 
after it." (Vera's cheeks are as dully sallow as cheeks can 
well be.) "No need to introduce you to Dick, I see; he 
has done it himself Dora, my dear, you have not met him 
— my son, Richard Ffirench. Dick, my boy, Miss Dora 
Light wood' 1 

And then it all flashes upon Vera — the deception, the 
shameful deception. He has drawn her out, he has taken 
her in, he has been laughing at her all the morning. Ic is 
Captain Dick himself, and no other. She turns upon him in 
a flame of wrath — yes, he is laughing at her even now. 

" You — you are a wretch / " she cries, and turns md nap 
headlong intc the house. 



44 AFTMM MXEAXFAST 




CHAPTER VI. 

AFTER BREAKFAST. 

it two hours later, and the hall thermometer standi 
at ninety. There is not a breath stirring, the roses 
droop their sweet, heavy heads, the great beds of 
geranium and gladioli blaze in the yellow glare. The sea 
off there looks white and molten, the leaves of the trees 
hang motionless. It is the sultriest of July mornings, and 
Vera, coiled up on the marble of the wide hall floor, has laid 
aside her indignation for the present, as she has every super- 
fluous article of dress. She proposes resuming both pres- 
ently, when the day cools off a little, for she feels she has 
been disgracefully imposed upon, but at present it is too hot 
for dignity. The most ferocious Corsican in such a state of 
the atmosphere would be obliged to forego vendetta ; so, 
though her enemy lounges within a yard of her, Vera is in 
too wilted a state for vengeance or reprisal. 

Miss Charlton, in a white dress, a white rose in her hair, a 
magazine in her hand, looks cool and fresh as a rose herself, 
She is one of the fortunate few who always look cool ; she 
is never flushed, nor heated, nor freckled, nor sunburned. 
She is trying to read, but breaks off with a smile to listen to 
Vera's girlish chatter, for, however warm this young person 
may be, she is seldom too warm to talk. Dora reclines on a 
lounge, languidly fanning herself and monopolizing Captain 
Ffrench. Mrs. Charlton is also present, her ponderous form 
filling a large wicker chair, her eyes half closed but all-see- 
ing, silent but all-hearing, her tight lips sealed, her eyebrows 
contracted. She looks uncommonly like a ht family mouser 
with eye and paw sharpened, ready to pounce in one sound 
lest leap on her victim. This irreverent comparison is 



Don's, who with yale^ pretty face, slightly flushed, will; tflu* 
eyes shining, with rosy lips dimpling, is, Mrs. Charlton feels 
a foeman worthy of her steel In the door-way the bone of 
contention, the stalwart young heir presumptive, for whom 
all these fair women have donned plumes and war-paint, 
stands, his masculine vanity elate and tickled, immensely 
amused at the situation, and wondering if Abdul Aziz feels 
anything like this in the midst of the harem. Miss Light- 
wood is certainly doing her best, and Dora's best is pretty 
nearly perfect. According to her light, this young lady is 
conscientiously determined to do her duty — the very utmost 
she can do for herself and her sister. For Dora Lightwood 
forms no plans in which that gipsy sister does not share. 

" I am a selfish little brute," Dora calmly admits, com- 
muning with her own heart. " I am mercenary, I am unscru- 
pulous in a good many things, I have a horrid temper, I 
give my whole mind to my clothes, I hate people, as a 
general thing, but I love little Vera. I don't know why, I 
am sure. I never tried to, I never wanted to ; loving any 
one is a mistake ; all the same, I am awfully fond of Vera. 
And if a rich man proposed to me and made it a condition 
that I should part from Vera, why, I wouldn't marry him. I 
cannot say more than that" 

She cannot. To refuse wealth for the sake of any human 
being is, in her eyes, the highest of all tests of love. As she 
lies here, in the "golden bower " of her fair floating hair, in 
her pale blue wrapper with its delicate trimmings, she is 
busily building castles in Spain — substantial castles, with a 
French cook in the kitchen, a French maid in my lady's 
chamber, three toilets per diem, a house uptown, near Cen- 
tral Park, a pew in a fashionable church, horses, carriages, 
black drivers in livery, and Charlton Place tlways, for at 
least three weeks evuy August, after Newport and tht 
mountains have been "done." Somewhere in the back* 
ground, faint and far on^ is a tall young man cf the muscular 



AFTER BREAKFAST. 

Christianity order, ready to sign unlimited checks, and toa 
much absorbed in scientific things, and explorations, and 
Hugh Miller's books, to push himself unbecomingly forward 
in the way of his wife's amusements. And Vera shah go 
to school for a year or two, to the most exclusive and exten- 
sive school whose portals greenbacks can unlock, and the 
child shall walk in silk attire, and currency have to spare. 
Then, when she is finished, they will make the grand tour — a 
winter in Paris, a Carnival and Easter in Rome, they will 
climb an Alp or two, and finish with a season in Lon- 
don 

" My dear Miss Lightwood," says the suave voice of Mrs. 
Charlton, "how many years is it — I really forget — since 
your father died ? Ah ! what a shock his death was to me. 
In youth we had been so intimate. Is it eighteen or twenty 
now?" 

Dora awakes from her gorgeous dream. She looks across 
at her kinswoman, more cat-like than ever, with her con- 
tracted eyes and feline smile, and is ready for hostilities in 
half a second, 

" Odd that you should forget, is it not, since you were 
such bosom friends ? It is precisely nineteen years. Old 
Cat 1 " Dora says inwardly, " as if I didn't see your drift. I 
have kept big Dick Ffrench too long, have I, and your 
Eleanor is out in the cold." 

" Ah 1 " Mrs. Charlton responds, her ample bust swelling 
with a fat sigh, " nineteen years. How time flies." 

" Very true. That is an aphorism I have several times 
heard before." 

" And you, dear child, you were — let me see — no, you 
could not have been twelve, because " 

The malicious eyes contract a trifle more as they transfix 
the audacious little flirt on the lounge. Captain Ffrench is 
out of his depth, but feels vaguely and alarnDedly that this 
conversation is meant to be unpleasant 



AFTER BREAKFAST. 49 

11 Because that would leave me at the present moment— 
I am the worst person at figures in the world — Captain 
Ffrench, nineteen and twelve, how much is that ? " 

" One-and-twenty, I should sav, in your case,* 9 responds! 
gravely, Captain Ffrench. 

"My father died, my dear Mrs. Charlton," says Dora, 
with a rippling smile, " nine — teen years ago. I was at the 
time seven years old, only seven, I assure you ; the family 
Bible is still extant Last birthday I was six-and-twenty. 
Six — and — twenty, fully two years older than Eleanor, I do 
believe. And then I lost my poor dear mamma so early. 
Things might have been so different if she had lived. It 
must be so nice to have a mamma to look out for one, to 
point out whom to be attentive to, and whom to avoid, in 
this deceitful world — to lay plans for one " 

" If one is not capable of laying plans for one's self— very 
true," says the other duellist, firing promptly. " A mother in 
many cases would be a superfluity. To be tossed about the 
world and learn one's own sharpness from hard experience 
1 beg your pardon, Mr. Charlton, did you address me? v 

44 Would you not like to come out and visit the fernery ? * 
says Captain Ffrench, hastily, in horrible alarm lest this blood* 
less battle shall be renewed, " or— or is it too warm?" 

4 'Not in the least too warm," smiles Dora; "warmth is 
my element Vera, hand me my sun-hat, please. Nelly, 
dear, what are your favorite flowers — I shall fetch you » 
bouquet" * 

She ties the broad tulle hat over the loose crinkling hair, 
the small, pretty face, and light blue eye*, gleaming witn 
mirth and malice. 

44 It's a my fine thing to be mother-in-law 
To a very magnificent three-tailed Baihaw," 

ate sings under her breath as she goes, but Mrs. Chariton 
hears her and flashes a wrathful glance after her enemy. Sue 



AFTER BREAKFAST. 

has been routed this boat, bat hostilities hare only 
menced; the feels she is an old and able veteran, and they 
laugh best who laugh last As she thinks it, Miss Light- 
wood's shrill peal comes back to her from out the blaze of 
sunshine into which she goes with Captain Dick. Dora's 
laugh is not her strong point, it is elfish and metallic, and 
'does not harmonize at all with the rose-hued mouth and 
baby prettiness of face. 

" That horrid old woman ! " she exclaims, " did you evef 
hear anything so spiteful, Captain Ffrench ? And all because 
you happened to be civil to me. Don't put on that innocent 
face, sir, and pretend you don't know." 

" By George I " says Captain Dick, " how uncommonl) 
flattering. I must endeavor to distribute my civility with 
more impartiality hereafter. You gave her as good as she 
brought, however, Miss Lightwood — that must be a soothing 
recollection. 99 

" It is," answers Dora, setting her teeth viciously ; " ever 
since I can remember I always hit hard." She doubles up 
her small fist instinctively, and Captain Ffrench eyes it with 
gravity. 

"Yes," he says, " I should think a blow of that battering- 
ram would settle almost any sort of combatant But, perhaps, 
it is morally, not physically, that you pitch into people. 
Moral whacks are so much easier to bear." 

"Do you think as? "laughs Dora. "Judging by youi 

txceedingly uncomfortable expression a few moments ago, I 

«Muld never think it. Honestly, it was in abominably bad 

taste this pugilistic encounter in your presence ; but what 

was I to do ? You heard yourself— it was she who began it* 

"And was defeated with great slaughter ! It was a per- 
fectly fair fight, Miss Lightwood, and I rather enjoyed it 
I bespeak the office of bottle-holder when the next match 
comes oft For I infer this contest for die—" He 
pauses and looks down ; Dora looks op, and at die mutual 



AFTER BREAKPAS7. 49 

glance, 10 fall of meaning, both explode into a frank 
laugh. 

"Championship!" says Miss Lightwood, "for what else 
could it be ? Oh ! Captain Ffrench, conceit is the vice of 
your sex — beware of it Is this the fernery ? How cool and 
green it looks ; and a fountain — is not the plash of the falling 
waters delicious ? That reminds me — if I get up to-morrow, 
will you take me to your enchanted island, all unbeknown 
to Madame Charlton ? Early rising is not my prominent 
virtue, but Vera painted the delights of her water excursion 
in such glowing colors, that I think it is worth one's morning 
nap — for once." 

Captain Ffrench protests he will be only too blessed, too 
honored. In reality he is more or less bored. For the past 
half-hour he has been sighing inwardly for the sea-girt seclu- 
sion of Shaddeck Light, his books, and drawing-board. Not 
that he hasn't enjoyed the skirmish too, and the conversation 
of this piquant little woman of the world is spicy and novel. 
But enough is enough — of the first principles of flirtation he is 
absolutely ignorant ; he has not had his after-breakfast smoke, 
he has not had his every-day, rain-or-shine, constitutional 
walk. He wonders what Eleanor is doing. How different 
she is from this pert (poor Dor* s ready audacity is pertness in 
his eyes), forward, sharp-voiced little person, who talks so 
much vapid inanity. He can see Eleanor with her slightly 
bent head; her clear face, her large, sweet, serious eyes, 
thoughtful and a little sad. For there is always a touch of 
sadness about Eleanor — why, he wonders? Her mother 
nags her, no doubt ; she is a hard old vixen, and can be 
deusedly unpleasant when she likes ; but somehow he thinks 
the trouble lies deeper than that She has to work hard, 
but she has the earnest nature of women who do not shirk 
work, who even find in work their greatest solace wher life 
goes wrong. 

" Poor girl,* he thinks, and quite a new aensatkm stin 
% 



SO AFTER BREAKFAST. 

somewhere within Captain Dick's broad chest He is not 
the sort of man to (all too easily a victim to the tender pas- 
sion, but if he were, and time, and propinquity, and a drowsy 
country-house given, a tall serene girl, with gentle voice and 

ways, all womanly sweetnesses and graces And then 

the shrill treble of Miss Lightwood breaks upon his dream, as 
her own was broken in upon a while ago, and claims him for 
the time as her own. 

In the hall, Mr. Charlton, blandest, suavest of old time 
gentlemen and courteous hosts, entertains Mrs. Charlton with 
gossip about the neighborhood, and details of the fine old 
families, the Huntings, the Deerings, the Howells, of the old 
Puritan breed, who came over from Connecticut in 1650 ; 
and whose fathers made fortunes in the halcyon days from 
1828 to 1845, when St. Ann's sent out her fleet of "blubber 
hunters," and dark-eyed foreign sailors reeled drunken about 
its quiet streets. Vera nestles near Eleanor's chair, and re- 
lates her adventure of the morning, at which Miss Charlton 
laughs. 

" Was it not a horrid shame ! " cries Vera, indignantly, 
" and I never suspected — no, not once — he kept such a vir 
tmous and unconscious face. He knew that fellow I he was 
a bashful fool, and he sneaked upstairs to bed. Yes, very 
bashful, I should think ; his modesty will prove fatal some 
day, if he doesn't take care ! " 

Eleanor laughs again. 

" It was unpardonable — it wa*, really. I hope you did 
not commit yourself to any very awful extent, Vera ? " 

"I asked him a great many questions about Captain 
Ffrench, I know," says Vera, still hot and resentful, and see- 
ing nothing to laugh at ; " and he had not a good word to 
say of himself I daie say he was right, it is a subject on 
which he ought to be informed. Still," with a sudden in- 
consequent change of tone, "I think te is nice— doo*! 
yem?" 



AFTEJt BREAKFAST. %l 

"Very nice.' 

* And handsome ? " 

u Well— rather." 

"And awfully clever? Now don't say you don't know, 
because it is patent to the dullest observer. He talks like a 
book — when he likes." 

" Then he doesn't always like, for I have heard him when 
he talked more like Captain Dick Ffrench than Emerson or 
Carlyle." 

" Ah ! I don't know them. All the same, he is clever. 
He is a musician " 

" He plays the violin tolerably, as amateurs go." 

" And he draws beautifully. And you needn't be so crW 
caL He has your picture over the mantel at Shaddeck 
Light" 

"Nonsense I" Eleanor's cheek flushes suddenly, and 
Mamma Charlton, with one ear bent to her host, the other 
turned to her daughter, pricks up the near o*e to catch 
more. 

" It is there — nonsense or not — a crayon, as like you as 
two peas, flattered if anything. And there is a date. ' New 
Orleans, May, 1861.' So it seems, Miss Slyboots, you and 
Captain Dick are very old friends." 

" Oh I no, no. I never spoke to him in my life until four 
days ago." 

Vera's large, dark eyes lift and look at her. They are eyes 
of crystal clearness, the one beauty at present of her face, 
down through which you seem to see into the absolute white 
fruth of a child's soul. 

"lam telling you the truth, Vera," she says, her cheeks 
•till hot, " though you look as if you doubted it Some yean 
ago I met Captain Ffrench at a house in New Orleans, where 
I gave music lessons. He came with an uncle of the 
cnildren, and they adopted him as an uncle also. The mothei 
was a French lady. To the children I was simply Midemot 



$1 AFTER BREAKFAST. 

telle- -be tu Uncle Dick Bat I never knew to nmn% 
neve ipoke to him till I met him here." 

Vera drops back on the marble. There is a shade of 
annoyance on Eleanor's face, as if half provoked at having 
this confession extorted Her mother is listening, unctuous 
and well pleased. 

" You evidently made a silent impression then," says Vera, 
"I said this morning, 'That is Miss Charlton's picture; 1 
and he said, 'Then Miss Charlton is a very pretty girL 
Here comes Dot, alone ; I wonder what she has done with 
him ? Dot I Where have you left Captain Ffrench ? " 

"Am I my brother's keeper?" replies Dora, sauntering 
in, a great nosegay in her hand. " Here is your bouquet, 
Nelly. Captain Ffrench cut the flowers, and I arranged 
them. I am a milliner, you know, by profession, and have 
artistic tastes ' 

" Ever so iuany thanks — your taste is exquisite." 

" But where is Captain Ffrench ? " persists Vera, rising on 
her elbow, " you are responsible for him — he was last seen 
alive in your company. There is no old well out in the gar- 
den, is there, that you could drop him into, & la Lady Audley ? 
And besides, he isn't a husband in the way " 

"Vera, dear," says Dora, sweetly, "you are horrifying 

Mrs. Charlton, with your wild talk of husbands. My sister 

-*she is only sixteen — talks dreadful nonsense sometimes. 

Indeed, it is a family failing — net on the Charlton side, of 

course." 

" But, Captain Dick — Captain Dick ! what has become of 
Captaii Dick ? " reiterates Vera. 

44 He has gone to St. Ann's for letters," says Dora, resum- 
ing her place on the lounge. " As it stands about one hun 
dred and fifty out in the sun, yoi. may imagine how fascina 
ting he finds your society, when he prefers to it a blazing 
three-mile walk. Now don't talk to me, please, I am going 
to take a Mm." 



AFTER BREAKFAST. S3 

Which she does almost at once, her mite of a hand under 
her rose-leaf cheek, sleeping as a baby sleeps, with softly 
parted lips. 

" How pretty your sister is," Eleanor says, gently. 

"Yes, is she not? 11 Vera answers, proudly, "and so much 
admired wherever she goes. People turn in the streets to 
look after her, and Madame Le Bran says she never had a 
forewoman half so popular before." 

" You are not in the least like her. 11 

" Oh I no, not in the least. I am the Ugly Duckling, yoc 
know. There is generally one in every hatching. 9 * 

"And, like the Ugly Duckling, will turn by and by into a 
stately swan,* says Eleanor, smiling down on the dark, thin 
face, with its great Murillo eyes. 

" No," Vera says, shaking her head with a sigh, " suck 
transformations are only in fairy tales and pantomimes. I 
am the Ugly Duckling and I shall never be the swan. But I 
don't mind. I would rather have Dot pretty than be pretty 
myself.* 

Here Mrs. Charlton rises, excuses herself and sails away. 
Mr. Charlton departs to write letters in his study, Eleanor 
resumes her magazine, and Vera lapses into a day-dream, 
still coiled on the floor. The day-dream changes gradually 
into a real dream, in which she is floating over sunlit seas 
with Captain Dick, past fairy isles all dotted with small gray 
houses, until they finally, and rather unexpectedly, come to 
anchor somewhere in the upper part of Fifth Avenue, before 
Mrs. Trafton's front door. Captain Dick moors his craft to 
the brown-stone steps, and is going up to ring the bell, 
when 

"Three for the governor," says the pleasant voice of 
Captain Dick, in the flesh, "one for you, Miss Charlton, and 
half a dozen for myself! None for you, Miss Ligttwood, 
none for you, Miss Vera, although I suppose it if rathet 
soon for your five hundred to be£h*" 



54 ATTBJt BREAKFAST. 

Vera rubs her eyes, and sits up. He hands Eleanor hoi 
letter, and Dora, who is also awake, sees with one quick, 
keen glance, that the writing is a man's. 

" I did not expect " Eleanor begins in surprise. Then 

her voice falters, fails, she looks at the envelope, and grows 
pale. She lifts her eyes, and casts an anxious glance at 
Captain Dick, but his countenance is impassive. Her letter 
is postmarked St Ann's, the chirography unmistakably mas- 
culine, but there is no curiosity in his face. 

" 1 must deliver the governor's, 11 he says, and goes. Miss 
Charlton rises slowfy, and goes upstairs. Dora's eyes fol- 
low her. The surprise, the falter, the jullor, the postmark 
— Dora has seen all. Dora has eyes that see everything. 

14 Now I wonder what you are about?" muses Miss 
Lightwood, "and who our unwelcome correspondent is? 
Are you a fiery Southern lover come to guard your own, or 
are you a little bill ? " 

Little bills are the bane of Dora's life, but this is no dun. 
It is short and affectionate enough to establish the accuracy 
of ^Miss Lightwood's first guess. And it closes 

•• I know yon will resent my disobeying orders, bnt resent or not, 
I must see yon. Do not be too hard on a poor devil, Nelly— it is eight 
months since we met. See yon I simply must. I will be on the other 
side of the boundary wall (where Mr. Charlton's peach-trees flourish) 
about seven this evening. I will wait until nine, as I don't know tut 
Charlton dinner hour. Do not fail. I expect a scolding, but a scold- 
ing from you, my darling, will be sweeter than words of honey frcsj 

stlV 



MM THE COOL OF TOE EVENING. %% 




CHAPTER VIL 

nr the cool op ths svunra. 

AY has passed, evening has begun. It is six o'clock, 
and the white quivering heat is spent, a breeze 
rises fresh from the Atlantic, flutters every lace 
curtain, and blows through every open window and door of 
the fine old Charlton Mansion. Over in St Ann's the noises 
of the day are done ; down in the warm-flushed west the sun 
— who has nobly done his duty all day, and baked the earth 
to powder — is sinking out of sight The flowers lift their 
hanging heads, there is a rustle and a flutter through all the 
leafy trees, the birds chirp as they go to roost, and, revived 
by siesta and bath, the ladies of the household in the dusky 
seclusion of their chambers are robing for the great event 
of the day — of all our days— dinner. 

" Dot," says Vera, tiptoing around, and straining her neck 
to get a view of the small of her back, where she wishes to 
plant a bow, "lam afraid it is of no use. I am afraid it is 
to be Eleanor." 

"What is of no use?" asks Dora, for this remark hat 
been made (like the generality of Vera's remarks) apropos 
of nothing. But she smiles too, as if she understood. Their 
rooms adjoin, the door of communication is open, and both 
are before their respective mirrors. 

" About Captain Ffrench. Bother this sash I I can't get 
it to come straight I think he must be falling in love with 
her Dot He has her picture, as I told you, over there in 
that funny little light-house, and he has a way of looking at 
ner What are you laughing at ? " 

"At your perspicuity, dear, at your profound knowledge 
of the ways and manners of Richard Ffrench. This bifc 



$6 IN THE COOL OF THE EVENING. 

solemn Dick who thinks we arc all dying far him. So yam 
are convinced I have no chance ? " 

" Well," says Vera reluctantly, u you see everything was in 
her favor. You did not have a fait start, Dot. Eleanor was 
here three days ahead, and a good deal can be done in three 
days " Vera breaks 0% for Dora is laughing immoder- 
ately. The simplicity, the earnestness of little Vera are oe 
comical. 

"Vera, child, you will be the death of me! Do you 
really think I have come down here to marry Dick Ffrench 
— if I can. What a humiliating idea. Not but that it 

would be worth while " She glances wistfully out over 

lawn and garden, green glade, and dense shrubbery. " Yes, 
it would be worth while, and what I can — I will do." 

" Worth while ? " repeats Vera, " I should think so. It 
is like the Garden of Eden. Old Mr. Charlton must be 
awfully rich, Dot" 

" A millionnaire, my child." 

" Ah 1" sighs Vera — a long-drawn sigh, " a millionnaire 1 
What a rich, respectable, beautiful sound that has. And to 
be the step-daughter-in-law of a millionnaire, or even the half- 
sister of the step-daughter-in-law. What bliss I " 

" Are you not getting things a little mixed ? " Dora in- 
quires, but Vera pays no attention. The bow is tied now, 
geometrically, on her spinal column, and she is leaning with 
folded arms on the sill, half out of the window. A great wis- 
teria trails with its purple plumes all about the casement, and 
makes a setting for the black curly head and brown roignoa 
face. 

" There he is now " she exclaims, involuntarily. Cap- 
tain Dick perhaps hears, for he looks up. He takes off his 
hat, takes out his cigar, and puts #n a penitmt, an agonised 
expression. 

"Am I forgiven? " he asks, imploringly. "If you only 
knew the day of misery I have passed, with a sin repented 



tM THE COOL OF THE EVENING. 57 

« 
A, but unpardoned, on my conscience ! And the tocsii of 

the soul is about to sound — be merciful while there is yet 
time. How am I to consume lamb and mint sauce, wither- 
ing under your displeasure ? " 

Dora does not catch Vera's shrilly indignant rejoinder- 
she is too far out of the window. The conscience-stricken 
one down below wears an aspect of desolation, and tries a 
second appeal, this time with more success. Vera is relent* 
ing, to judge from the softened tone of her voice — the 
remorse of the culprit is not without its effect. Then — " I 
wish you would come down," says Captain Dick, still mildly 
plaintive. " I haven't a soul to speak to, and I am never 
more alone than when alone. Come." 

" Come into the garden, Maud," sings Vera ; " it is more 

than you deserve, still " There is a swish of silk, a waft 

of wood violet — Vera takes the last three stone steps with a 
jump, and is at Captain Ffrench's side. 

Dora watches them with a well satisfied smile until they 
disappear. 

"Yes," she thinks again. "It would be worth while. 
And then the satisfaction of out-manoeuvring that old double- 
chinned witch of Endor. My age, indeed 1 The imperti- 
nence of trying to make me out thirty-one, in Dick 
Ffrench's presence. Eleanor is to be princess consort, and 
she is to reign monarch of all she surveys at CharHon. Ah, 
well 1 " Miss Lightwood nods to her own pretty face in the 
glass; " this is to be a drawn battle, and all I ask is a fair 
field and no favor. I will back myself to win against Elea- 
nor Charlton any day, in spite of the picture in the light* 
house, and her three days' start in the race ." 

Miss Lightwood, looking very charming in one of the cos- 
tumes purchased with the three hundred dollars, goes down- 
stairs and finds her host and Mrs. and Miss Charlton 
already there. Vera and Captain Dick are still absent, but 
somewhere near, for Vera's joyous laugh comes every now 






$8 IN THE COOL OP THE EVENING. 

and then, mingled with the boom of Dick's mellow bat* 
P/ssently they appear, a sort of laurel crown aioming the 
Captain's hat, and Vera looking like a young Bacchante 
with clusters of trailing grape tendrils tangled in her dark, 
crisp hair, 

"Let us crown ourselves with roses before they fade," 
quotes Captain Dick. " Miss Vera has given me brevet 
rank — the laurel wreath which posterity holds in store for 
me has been anticipated. Peace is restored, we have 
buried the hatchet, we have smoked the pipe — two or three 
pipes — of peace " 

"Speak for yourself ! " retorts Vera, "/d^n't smoke, 
although I am half a Cuban. We have not kept you wait 
fog, have we ? It is all Captain Dick's fault." 

Mrs. Charlton frowns. Vera is not the rose, but she 
grows near that dangerous flower. And whatever the heir's 
sentiments towards the elder sister may be, his liking for the 
younger has been patent from the first. 

" How admirably Captain Ffrench and Vera get on," she 
says smilingly, as she goes into dinner with her host, and 
Mr. Charlton laughs in his genial way. 

" Oh, yes," he says, " Dick was always remarkably fond 
of children. And she is really a bright little sprite." 

" She is sixteen years old, 1 ' says madam sharply, but the 
hint is lost They are in the dining-room, and all other pro- 
jects merge themselves in dinner. It is a large apartment, 
cool and airy, with a carpet like greenest moss, pictures 
of fruit and flowers on the tinted walls, sea-green silk and 
frosted lace curtains. The appointments, the silver, the 
glass, the courses are excellent. The Charlton cook may 
not be a cordon bleu, out she understands her art, and the 
result is eminently satisfactory. It is years, Dora thinks, 
with a deep sigh of complacency, since she has dined before. 
She has eaten to live — no more. Something of an ep cure* 
in addition to her other virtues, is Miss Lightwood He* 



IN THE COOL OF THE EVENING. 59 

utiftic taste takes in with real pleasure the snowy naperj, 
(he tall epergne of choice flowers, the ruby and amber tints of 
the wines. 

Mr. Charlton is a very king of hosts, an ideal old time 
gentleman, genial and mellow as his own vintages, honoring 
all women with old time chivalry, and with an Arab's idea of 
the virtue of hospitality, Mrs. Charlton, in the place of 
honor, is paying unconscious compliments to the skill of his 
chef ^ and for the moment both eyes and attention are com- 
pletely absorbed. Opposite sits Eleanor, whom Dora re- 
gards with considerable curiosity. She is paler than usual, 
she eats little, a more than ordinary troubled expression 
saddens the gentle eyes. By Dora's side is Captain Ffrench, 
and while he lends a careless ear to her gay sallies, she sees 
with inward rage, that his eyes wander perpetually to Elea- 
nor. He, too, observes the cloud, but it never occurs to him 
to connect it with the letter of a few hours before. It is her 
nagging old mother, he thinks, who is fretting the poor girl 
to death. He is character reader enough to guess pretty 
dearly^what sort of a Tartar Mrs. Charlton can be, when she 
likes. A great compassion fills him. In the love of some 
men, the element of pity is an absolute essential ; the instinct 
of protection must be the kindler of the flame. Richard 
Ffrench is one of these. His passion is not very profound, 
perhaps, as yet, but if Eleanor Charlton were the most design- 
ing of coquettes, she could not advance her interests half so 
surely in any other way. As he sits here he would like to 
come between her and all life's troubles and toils, to shield 
her front work, and sorrow, and nagging, forevermore. And 
Dora's bright blue eyes read his face, and his thoughts, as he 
sits beside her, like a printed page. Indeed, less sharp orb* 
might, for the print is very large. 

" Stupid idiot 1 " she thinks, " these big fellows, all brawn 
and muscle, are sure to be besotted about pensive, die-away 
damsels, and their lackadaisical airs. As if any one cou'd 



60 IN TOE 6C0L OF THE EVENING. 

not lee it wai all pat on with her dinner diets. She has 
studied him well enough, it seems, to know that the secret 
sorrow sort of thing is safe to go down." 

Dessert is over, the ladies rise and go. There is British 
blood in the Charlton veins, and Mr. Charlton likes and 
honors the ancient custom of lingering over the walnuts and 
the wine, after his womankind depart To-day he has a 
word or two besides for his step-son's private ear. 

" Well, Dick," he says, " and how do you like them ? * 

He pushes the claret towards the younger man, who is ab 
stemious by instinct, and prefers, even after dinner, a cleai 
head to a muddled one. Captain Ffrench, peeling a peach, 
lifts his straight eyebrows. 

" That goes without saying, does it not ? A man can have 
but one opinion concerning three charming girls/ ' 

" Let us count out the dowager and the young one," says 
Mr. Charlton, good humoredly. " That little Lightwood is 
pretty as a rosebud." 

"Prettier, I think," says Captain Dick., 

"But Miss Charlton— ah! there is dignity, and beauty 
and grace combined, if you like." 

Richard Ffrench laughs lazily. 

" The precise remark Mr. Vincent Crummies made when 
he first saw Mrs. Vincent Crummies standing on her head. 
I wonder who she takes it after ? — Miss Charlton, I mean, 
—-not Mrs. Vincent Crummies. Her father must have been 
rather a fine fellow, I should judge. A man may be a good 
fellow in the main, and yet write himself down an ass matri- 
monially." 

Mr. Charlton chuckles. 

" Hard on the dowager, Dick. Well I a great deal of ha 
would be wearing, I dare say. Bat you must allow she it a 
remarkably well-preserved woman for her years." 

"Both pickled and preserved, I should say, sir. Yoi 
have no immediate intention then, I conclude, from voui 



IN TBE COCL OF TOM *rJLN12fC 51 

dispassionate way of speaking, of inflicting upon me a step 
mother?" 

"Hey! M 

"Because I think her ideas run a little in that groove. 
Charlton is a fine place, and yon are an uncommonly fine* 
looking elderly gentleman, governor." 

This is carrying the war into Africa with a vengeance. Hai 
Dick foreseen and forestalled his communication ? For a 
moment he is nonplussed — then he laughs. 

" Rubbish, Dick 1 Nothing so absurd could ever enter 
any head but one addled over ' Ollendorff Spanish.' But, 
speaking of matrimony — what do you suppose I have brought 
those girls down here for ? " 

" It is plain to the dullest intelligence. To select, at 
your leisure, a mistress for Charlton, and a " 

" Wife for you. Exactly, Dick. Now which shall it be ? M 

44 My dear governor ! " 

" Which ? Eleanor you have known a week — knew long 
ago, in fact. And Dora you have seen enough of to ascer 
tain " 

" That she is an extremely charming girl, with whom I in* 
tend to have nothing to do ! I-et me offer you this dish ol 
apricots, sir ; they are nearly perfect." 

" Then it is to be Miss Charlton ? My dear boy ; it is 
precisely what I would have wished. She is all any man 
could desire — well-bred, well-looking, gentle, good, and the 
best of Charlton blood. Dick, you are a trump I Let me 
congratulate you." 

He stretches his hand across the table. His step-son 
places his in it, but under amused protest 

"My dear governor! really this is very embreassing. 
What have I said to commit myself to this serious extent t 
I have a sort of married man feeling already, and upon my 
life I don't wish to. Things can't rush on in 4ia summary 
way- -yon mustn't, you know." 



62 IN TNE COOL OF TBE EVENING. 

u Dick, listen to me — seriously, I beg. The one desire jf 
my life is to see you settled." 

" Then your desire is gratified, sir. Nothing could 6e 
more flatly settled than I feel at this moment." 

" To see you settled," goes on Mr. Charhon, with some 
emotion, " with an estimable wife. Nothing else will do it, 
Dick." 

"Are you sure that will, governor?" doubtfully. "Of 
nuptial bliss I know nothing, but I have known married 
men, and — well, to escape too much conjugal felicity, I have 
known them to rush * anywhere, anywhere, out of the world.' 
My friend Englehart has a wife — I say no more/ 9 

" Your friend Englehart has a pernicious influence," ex- 
claims Mr. Charlton, hotly ; " but for him you would nevei 
have thought of this wild-goose chase to Central America. 
It was he that induced you to go with the Arctic Exploration 
party. Is the recollection of blubber and seal oil so savory 
that you long to be at it again ? " 

" No," Dick answers, "as a steady diet, I don't pine for 
blubber or seal oil ; but in the Honduras affair " 

" Which you will never join, with my consent I" cries Mr. 
Charlton, growing red. 

" Now, my dear sir," expostulates Dick, " consider. I 
stand pledged to Dr. Englehart and the rest of the Scientific 
Corps. It is true they might replace me, but I know they 
would rather I went ; and even if I could bear to disappoint 
them, like Tony Lumpkin, I could not bear to disappoint 
myself It is uncommonly kind of you, I know - I appre- 
ciate fully the affection that makes you desire to retain me, 
but you see, governor, I am an adventurer, a rolling stone, 01 
nothing. If I stayed here I would turn into a veritable molly- 
coddle, I would spoil in too much sunshine and sweetness. I 
am a restless animal by nature. I must have a safety-valve 
of some kind, and what could be safer than Honduras cjm) 
silver-mining ? When I wished to *oin the Carlisti ' 



IN TffB COOL OF THR RV&NJNG. 6j 

u Ton gave up that mad idea to please me. Give up this 
other, my boy, marry Nelly, and stay at home," 

" Isn't that taking a great deal for granted, sir ? It is one 
thing for Miss Charlton to accept your invitation and spend 
a few weeks here, quite another for her to accept me" 

Mr. Charlton smiles significantly. 

" Is that all ? Try and see. You are a tall and proper 
fellow, Dick, an eligible parti, as the ladies put k ; I wouldn't 
be too modest, if I were you. Come 1 I'm fond of you, my 
lad, you know that ; to keep you with me is the one desire 
of my life. You are my heir — all I have is yours ; make the 
old man happy, and remain with him. When I fell into this 
property, it was not for my own sake, my dear boy, I rejoiced, 
but for yours. Of course, in my will, I shall not forget these 
good little girls, who have come here at my bidding — same 
of my blood is in their veins ; but you are the heir, you 
are my son. You are listening, Dick ? And great wealtk 
brings great responsibilities. I am growing too old for re- 
sponsibility — stay and lift the load from my shoulders. 
Write to this fellow Englehart, curb your roving propen- 
sities, cease to be a rolling stone, marry Miss Charlton, ot 
whomever you please—only stay with your old father, 
Dick." 

" My dear sir," Dick says, and can say no more. He is 
more moved than he cares to show, but touched as he is, the 
thought of giving up the Central America project gives him 
a keen pang. He rises and goes over to the window, impa- 
tient with himself. " I must be an unfeeling dog," he thinks. 
" Any one else would yield at half this pleading. And yet 
what an utterly good-for-nothing life I shall lead here." 

" WeH, Dick ! " Mr. Charlton says, following him with an 
anxious countenance. 

" I'll try, sir," Dick Ffrench says, turning round ; " don 1 ! 
press me too hard. I'll do what I can. Nature has made 
me a vagabond, and you can't transmute one of mat irate* 



t* IN THE COOL OF TOM EVENING. 

nity into a respectable family man at once. Bat for yom 
sake w 

Mr.' Charlton grasps his handy tears in his old eyes. 

"God bless you, Dick — God bless you. I knew you 
would, you have too much of your mother in you to grieve 
wilfully any one who loves you. And Eleanor " 

" Ah I never mind that, governor. One thing at a time. 
And now I will leave you to join the ladies alone — I want a 
smoke and half an hour to think ail this revolution over. 19 

He opens the window, and steps out. The lovely sum- 
mer gloaming yet lingers, although the moon is rising. Sweet 
scents greet him, utter stillness is around him. He turns 
into the entrance avenue, dark already under its arching 
trees, with a sense of loss and depression upon him, keen 
and strong. To give up a life of bright adventure, of cease* 
less change, of scientific research, the society of men bra* 
liant of intellect, good comrades, and indefatigable explor- 
ers, for an existence humdrum and monotonous to a degree, 
without excitement or object from year's end to year's end 
— it is no light thing Mr. Charlton has demanded of Richard 
Ffrench. As to Miss Charlton — but he is out on the high 
road now, and gives up the conundrum for the present 

" It is Kismet, I suppose," he thinks, gloomily, " and 
nothing remains but to cover my face, and die with dignity. 
I shall be a round peg in a square hole, all the rest of my 
life. Well, I will have the majority for company at least — 
I wonder if that is the man who called upon me the other 
day at Shaddeck Light ? I ought to know that negligently 
graceful walk." 

The man disappears as he looks, and Captain Ffrench 
saunters on. It is past eight ; in the warm stillness of the 
summer evening, the ripple of the sea on the shore a quartef 
of a mile off, can be heard. Under the peach-trees by the 
southern wall the man takes his stand, and lorfci at hit 
watch. 



m TOE COOL Of THE MFMJf/Jn. fff 

"A quarter after eight, by Jove!" he says; "but it it 

the deuce and all of a walk 1 If any one had told me a year 

ago that I would walk three miles on a hot July evening to 

see any young woman in the universe, and mat young 

woman objecting in the strongest way— ah 1 well," with a 

sight u Call no man wise until he is dead" 

* * ******* 

In the drawing-room the gas is lit, and Vera at the piano 
Is singing. At a table near sits Mrs. Charlton and her host, 
absorbed in chess. 

Eleanor, near an open window, holds a book, but does 
not read. She is restless and nervous, starting at every 
sound, preoccupied and distrait Dora sees it all. Dora, 
half buried in a big chair, with a strip of embroidery in her 
hand. 

A clock strikes eight Miss Charlton rises, lays aside her 
book, and passes through the open window. No one notices 
except Dora, and Dora glides to the window and watches 
her out of sight. Where is she going? Was the letter an 
assignation ? Miss Lightwood feels she must know or per- 
ish. She follows Miss Charlton deliberately, unseen, un- 
heard, and presently espies her at the other end of the 
grounds, where the ornamental garden ends and the orchard 
begins. A low stone wall and high hedge separate the Charl- 
ton grounds from the common land, and on the other side 
of the wall, leaning lightly upon it, Dora sees what she 
knows she will see, what she hopes she will see — a man. 

" Aha I " cries Miss Lightwood, in triumph, " the pale, the 
pensive, the perfect Eleanor, makes and keeps assignations. 
The great Dick may be stupid and pig-headed, but I woodet 
what he will say to this?* 



jr ram zi**t of ram moom* 




CHAPTER VIIL 

rt THE UOH1 OF THS MOOM. 

|HE moon of the summer night hat risen vd and 
round, while yet in the west the opal brilliance cf 
closing day lingers. But even with this warm 
after-glow on her face, Dora sees that Eleanor is fixedly pale 
as she goes to the place of tryst. The man's face she cannot 
see — a broad straw hat shades it, and he stands well within 
die shadow of the trees. She herself is hidden among some 
clustering evergreens — for fruit trees and forest trees seem 
to grow indiscriminately in the Charlton orchard. She 
stands here a moment irresolute— curiosity and malice com* 
bined, are tempting her terribly. Honorable in any way, 
Dora is not; unprincipled in all small matters, she is, to 
an extraordinary degree. As a general thing, eavesdropping 
is not worth the trouble — to-night it is. If Eleanor really 
has a lover, and is out of the race, what remains for her but a 
quiet " walk over." Still this may be some near and obnox- 
ious relative ; she has read of such things, and somehow 
Eleanor Charlton does not seem the sort of girl to have 
clandestine lovers. In Dora's eyes she is at once an artful 
coquette, and a prude of the first order. If she could but 
hear ! how earnestly they seem to converse^it is too pro- 
voking to stand here and lose all that. She will run the 
risk — her dress is dark, and soundless — she must hear. 

And now you know what manner of woman Theodora 
Lightwood is. She tiptoes close, her heart beating with ex- 
pectation, draws her drapery closely about her, leanr he* 
head well forward, and deliberately listens. 

For a moment she can hear nothing but a low murmur—* 
II is Eleanor who is speaking, and at all times Miss Charlto* 



by rmm a**mt a* ram moon. 



mm a low voice. It is even mora subdued than usual wu% 
but in its accents Dora knows there is distress. 

u That is all quite true/' the man says coolly ; " what b 
the use of reminding me of it ? You may be a frost-maiden, 
Nelly, a marble Diana, with every wayward impulse well in 
hand, but you see I am only mortal — very mortal, my dear, 
and 1 could not keep away. Come, forgive me. If I 
loved you less I might find obedience more easy." 

Eleanor speaks, and again Dora, straining every nerve, 
loses her reply. But the man breaks in impatiently. 

" Dishonorable 1 clandestine 1 as if I came sneaking here 
from choice—- as if I would not go up to the front door, and 
ring the bell, and demand to see my betrothed wife, before 
the whole Charlton conclave, if yon would but let me. But 
there is your mother, and I am detrimental, and Ffrench 
is the heir, and son of the house. You might as well yield 
first as last, Nelly, my dear. I am a poor devil, good far 
nothing, with no prospects for years to come, and this fellow, 
Ffrench, is heir, they say, to two or three millions. It is 
only a question of time ; you cannot hold out. We both 
know perfectly well why your mother has brought you here. 
It would be madness not to take the goods the gods provide, 
and Where are you going ? M 

"Back to the house," Eleanor answers, indignantly. "I 
should never have come. Every word you utter is an in- 
sult If you can think this of me, it is indeed time we should 
part." 

" Oh 1 forgive me," he cries out, a real passion in his 
tone, "lama brute. No, I do not doubt you ; you are 
true as steel, true as truth but * hen I think of the differ- 
ence Nelly, you must despise me — how can you help it, 

such a useless drone as I am, lounging through life without 
aim, or energy, or ambition ? I despise myself when I wake 
up enough to feel at all. If I had a spark pf generosity, I 
would force you to accept your free lorn — and *his Ffrench 



m 31 TMM LMBT &F fWM MOO*. 

h a fine Mlow too— but I am not generous ; I lore yon as 
strongly at a stronger man might do, and I cannot Bat I 
will give up this idle life, I swear it, Nelly. I will try and 
jaake myself worthy of you. Only gif e me time, dear, try 
and trust me, and — and don't listen to Richard Ffrench. He 
will ask you to marry him — how can he help it ? He is 
fond of you already ; he has your picture over there in thai 
hut among the rocks, Keep him of£ Nelly, don't let your 
mother influence you, don't marry him for his money. Wait, 
wait, wait, and the day will come " 

A branch on which Dora breathlessly leans, breaks. At 
the sharp crash Eleanor starts up hastily, and the culprit^ 
■tilling her very heart-beats, crouches low. The darkness 
$t the evergreens protects her, the moonlight flooding the 
open with pale glory, does not pierce here. . But she loses 
what follows. When she is sufficiently reassured to listen, 
k is Eleanor who is speaking. 

M No," she says, resolutely, u no, again and again. Yoa 
must not write, you must not call, you must not come here 
You must leave St Ann's to-morrow. Oh ! if you cared for 
me would you compromise me in this way ? If you knew 
the shock, the pain, your letter gave me, the shame I feel 
at meeting you like this. But it must not be, it never shall 
be again. You will go and we will wait You ask me 
to trust you ; I have — I do — I always wilL If you failed 
me, Ernest, how could I live ? You know what my life is, 
dreary enough, Heaven knows, but I think of you and the 
years to come, and I wait and hope. But I will meet you 
no more, and you must go. You need fear no rival in Cap- 
tain Ffrench ; if he cared for me I should know it. His 
heart is in his profession, his exploring mania is the grand 
passion of his life. I like him — he is a brave and gallant 
gentleman, but I belong to you I can never belong to any 
one else." 

- My brave, loyal Nelly ' 



by ram u*bt *w rmm *»**. 

Dora, piping through her leafy screen, teat him take berth 
ner hands. They are evidently about to part, and she hat 
not seen him once. The thick drooping boughs that scree* 
her do the same good office for him. Anotner moment and 
they have parted. Eleanor moves quickly towards the 
house, Dora shrinks noiselessly back in her green covert. 
The man lingers until she is out of sight, then turns and 
walks slowly away. 

For a few minutes Miss Lightwood remains in her refresh 
triumph swelling her heart She has no rival to fear then- 
she has only to play her cards cleverly, and the game is her 
own. How fair Charlton looks by moonlight, the tall urns 
gleaming like silver, the high black trees looking a primeval 
forest in the uncertain light. Such a lovely home for her 
and Vera, such freedom from toil, such exemption from care, 
such a luxurious life. I think if Dora could have prayed, 
she would have knelt down there, and prayed for success. 
But prayer is not much in her way — of the earth, earthy she 
b to the core. Eat, drink, and be merry, for to-morrow yo« 
die, and death is at the end of all things, in Dora's creed. 
Marry rich, and spend his money — these are the two great 
duties of every woman's life. 

Captain Ffrench has not returned when Miss Charlton re- 
enters the drawing room. Vera is still amusing herself at 
the piano— she has a sweet voice, and plays cleverly. The 
chess-players are engrossed with queens and castles. Dora's 
absence she does not notice. 

M «I oWt prtttmd to tteoh tta — -•" 



Term in a spirited voice 



•• *It»s miiAm, or its folly, 
A task like that requires s 
My disposition's jolly.' w 



TO Mr TMM U*MT OF TOE MOO*. 

"Oh, Nelly!" she criei, turning round, "Is feat you) 
Have you seen Dot ? I thought you had both g joe out to 
be sentimental together in the moonlight* 

"Is Dot njt here?" Eleanor asks. "No, I ha/re not 
Men her — we have not been together." 

M Then perhaps she is with Captain Dick ; he has disap- 
peared as welL It is a heavenly night, and I would have 
gons out too, but I didn't want to play gooseberry. Axe you 
going again ? " 

"lam going upstairs. Good-night, dear." 

"Good-night, Nelly/' the girl responds. 

While Eleanor goes up the broad carpeted 
can hear the fresh happy young voice : 

" ' And what fis, after all, sucossa r 
My lif« is fair and may. 



Let other's covet Fame's carts*} 
/*av satisfied with moncv.' N 

r 

The old story, Eleanor thinks, even from this little girfs 
innocent lips. Is wealth, then, life's highest aim ? At all 
events, the lack of it mars many a life. She goes to her 
room, but she does not light the lamp, or go to bed. It is 
only ten, as she can see by her poor little silver watch, and 
her recent interview has banished all desire for sleep. She 
wishes she had never come here, but her mother so insisted 
—it looks so horribly like a deliberate attempt to ensnare 
Richard Fffench. Does he think she has come for that? 
Her cheeks burn at the thought. Were it not for this draw* 
back, a few weeks in this pleasant country house, with its 
gracious host, its rest from the weary tread-mill of hei 
teacher's life, would be unspeakably invigorating. But if 
Captain Ffrench thinks that 

Her door opens, her mother enters. 

" In the dark, Eleanor ? " Even in her blandest moments, 
Mrs. Charlton's voice has a rasping quality. " What a lovelr 



BY TUB LIGJTT OP TBB MOO*. JTI 

Bight Where were 700 and Captain Ffrench wandering aD 
evening?" 

" I was not with Captain Ffrench," Eleanor answers, hei 
heait flattering guiltily. " I have not seen him since dinner.' 

" No ? " sharply, " where then did you go— alone ? • 

"It is such a lovely night, mother. Will yoa not sit 
down?" 

"Was Dora Lightwood with you?" 

" No." 

"Not with you. Was she with Richard Ffrench ?" 

" I do not know. Very probably." 

There is silence — uncomfortable, ominous silence, fiem- 
cor feels through every tingling nerve, that a storm is brew- 
ing, and braces herself to meet it 

" Eleanor," her mother begins, in a deep, repressed voice, 
"what does this mean? Are you deliberately resolved to 
thwart me? Are you mad enough to fling away the one 
great chance of your life ? Are you going to give Richard 
Ffrench to Dora Lightwood ? Wait 1 " as Eleanor is about 
to speak, " I do not want any evasions, any shuffling, any 
beating about the bush. It is in your power before you quit 
Charlton, to quit as the affianced wife of its heir, if you will 
From Mr. Charlton's own lips, to-night, have I learned 
this." 

Her daughter looks at her. The issue has come, the 
truth must be told. Mrs. Charlton has a tine furious temper, 
a bitter bad tongue ; who should know that better than her 
luckless daughter ? And Eleanor shrinks quivering from the 
ordeal, but she never falters in her resolve. 

" From Mr. Charlton's own lips," repeats Mrs. Charlton, 
emphatically. " It seems he spoke to Dick at dinner, and 
Dick gave him to understand that- -that 'Barkis was vrill* 
in V " with a grim attempt at facetiousness. " He admires 
you, it seems, more than he ever admired any one before ; 
aft the slightest encouragement he is ready .0 speak. H* 



7* MY TBR LIGHT OP THE MOO*. 

is an excellent young man, a little wild, as I said, abort a 
roving life, but without a single vice. He has good manner% 
good looks, a fine education, and acknowledged talents. 
Now what can you — what can any one want more ? " 

Silence. 

"You will be one of the richest women going ; all you 
drudgery will be at an end. You will have a home where I 
can close my days in the peace and comfort I always was 
used to in other times. Alfred can go to Germany to study 
music " (Alfred is a juvenile son and brother, down in New 
Orleans), " and Mr. Charlton says you will make the happi- 
ness of his life. Nothing could be more affectionate than his 
manner of speaking of you. My dear, it was a red-letter day 
in your life, in all our lives, the day we came here. 11 

Silence. 

"Eleanor," the rasping voice takes a rising inflection, 
44 do you hear?" 

"Yes, mother, I hear." 

"And have you nothing to say? In my youth girls an- 
swered their mothers." 

"What do you wish me to say ? " 

Mrs. Charlton is growing exasperated — always an easy 
thing for Mrs. Charlton. Eleanor's voice is full of repressed 
feeling, but it sounds cold in her mother's ears, her hands are 
tightly locked in her lap, but her mother does not see. She 
fixes her hard stare on Eleanor's shrinking face. 

" Will you— or will you not," she slowly says, " marry 
Richard Ffrench ? » 

"I will not 1" 

" You will not ? " 

" I will not Mother, I cannot. Do not be angry, do 
not scold— oh 1 do not 1 It is impossible." 

44 why— if I may ask?" 

The storm is very near, distant thunder is in every ton% 
sheet lightning in every glance. 



MY TMM L/GMT 6P TMM MOO*. f\ 

" I do not care for him. I never am cm for him, ad 1 
toast love the man I many." 

Mrs. Charlton laugh*-* horrid, rasping, little kagh, mil 
of rage. 

"Love! Care for him I Oh! you fool! To mink that 
any girl of three-and-twenty, obliged to work like a galley- 
■lave, should talk such rot You mean then to tell me, 
deliberately and in cold blood to tell me, that when this 
young man asks yon, yon will say no ? • 

" I will say no." 

She is trembling from head to foot with repressed excite* 
ment, but she will not flinch. There is blank silence for a 
moment— then the storm bursts. And such a storm 1 Mrs. 
Charlton is a virago, a vulgar virago ; she has never curbed 
anger or rage in her life ; she has a tongue like a two-edged 
sword. Eleanor has seen her in her rages often, but never 
quite at white heat until to-night She bows before the 
tempest, she quails, she hides her face in her hands, fear, 
shame, disgust, shaking her as a reed. 

"Oh I mother I mother I" she gasps once, "for the love 
of Heaven 1 " but her mother pays no heed. The tornado 
most spend itself and does. 

As eleven strikes, she strides out of the room, banging the 
door with a last wooden "damn," and the contest is ended 
for to-night For to-night Alas ! Eleanor knows too well, 
that to-morrow, and all the to-morrows, and until the end of 
her life, she will never hear the last of this. She lays her 
folded arms on the window, and her head upon them, as 
though she never cared to lift it again. As she lies, white 
and spent, she hears Vera singing, going along the passage 
outside: 

" * Alt* I how easily thingi go wrong | 
A righ too much, or a Um too long.' 

•I wonder if Nelly is asl e ep " the voice breaks off in 

4 



74 BY TUB UGMT OP THE MOO*. 

soliloquy. "Here is a kin through die keyhole, asleep 
awake. 

u « And then fellows a mfat and a masping fain, 
And lilt fa never the mum again.' " 



The voice, fresh and clear as a skylark 1 *, ceases, a doof 
shuts, Vera is in her room. Then stillness. Then down on 
the lawn below, voices — the shrill treble of Dora, and the 
deeper tones of Captain Ffrench. 

Coming home at his leisure, a little after eleven, Captain 
Ffrench finds Miss Lightwood lingering oat of doors, enjoy- 
ing the midnight moonlight and coolness. A shadow still 
rests on the captain's brow ; he has accepted his fate — none 
the less he finds it hard. 

" What 1 " Dora cries, lifting her pale eyebrows, " alone I 
Where is Nelly ? " 

" Miss Charlton ? I have not seen her." 

u Not seen her ? " Dora knits her brows. " Oh 1 bat that 
is nonsense, Captain Ffrench. I saw her with you not aa 
hour ago/' 

" I assure you, no. I have not sees Miss Charlton since 
dinner.* 

"No?" Dora repeats, and now the blue artless eyes 
open wide. " Who then could it have been? I made sure 
it was you.* 

u I do not understand.* 

" She has no gentlemen acquaintances in St Ann's — she 

told me so ; and yet that letter this morning Captain 

Ffrench, I believe you are jesting with uie — it smr/have been 
you." 

44 Miss Lightwood, I am still ' far wide.' Awrally stupid of 
me, but upon my word, I don't understand a syllable you axe 
saying. Something about Miss Charlton, is it not ? She has 
not been with me ; I have not se?n her since we parted after 
dinner. Where is she ? Nothing has gone wrong, I trust ? ' 



MN TMM JLIGMT OF TMM MOO*. f$ 

44 Where is she ? " repeats Dora, in a pusxled tone ; in 
her room, perhaps. I do not know; she has not been 
with us all the evening. Captain Ffrench, it is the oddest 

thing You know that cluster of peach-trees over there 

:>y the orchard wall ? " 

He nods. 

" Well, an hour ago, I was roving through the grconds 
tempted out by the beauty of the night I chanced to 
pass near the peach-trees, and I saw Eleanor standing 
there, talking across the wall to a man. I was sure it was 
you, and——" 

But Captain Ffrench understands her now, and starts up. 

" Not another word ! " he says. " I beg your pardon- 
but I did not comprehend. Will you not take cold out here 
in the dew ? it is falling heavily. Have all the good people 
gone to bed?" 

41 1 suppose so." Dora bites her lip angrily. Fool he is 
not, but he has made her feel like one, and she is beginning 
t* hate him. 

" Then, I think I shall follow their example ;" he strug- 
gles for a moment with a yawn. " At what hour to-morrow 
shall I expect you, Miss I Jghtwood ? I and the Nixie will 
be at your service from five o'clock." 

For a second she is tempted to decline, but discretion is 
the better part of valor. Dora has this advantage over Mrs. 
Charlton, she has her pride and her temper well in hand. 

" Oh, that is an unearthly hour," she says with her shrill 
laugh. " Say half-past six ; I never can be ready sooner." 

" Half-past six then. Good-night, Miss Ligh^vood," and 
without ceremony he goes. 

Dora's work is done ; the beauty of the night nas ceased 
no tempt her. But she stands a moment, and it is no loving 
glance she casts after the tall captain. She follows slowly, 
ascends to her room, the sleepy housekeeper fastens doors 
«nd windows, and silence reigns within and without 



MOW m 0AMB WAS MAM. 

Vera lifts a dark head from her pillow, and opens twa 
sleepy dark eyes. 

" Is it you, Dot? at last. What a time you have been* 
You were with Captain Dick, weren't you ? Isn't he splen- 
did ? Oh 1 how sleepy I am I * a great yawn. " And this 
is the end of our first day, such a long, delightful day 1 Dot, 
I never want to leave Charlton as long as I live." 

She is asleep as she says it Her sister stoops and 
her. 

"And yonjfeff not, littl* Vera!" is her 




CHAPTER EL 

HOW THE OAMB WAS MADE. 

FORTNIGHT has passed, fourteen long, sunny, 
summer days. One after another they dawn and 
darken ; morning after morning the sun rises in 
fiery splendor, baking the earth, and sky, and grass, and 
human beings, until the eye grows weary of the perpetual 
dazzle, and longs for gray shadows, and drifting clouds, and 
the refreshing patter of rain. No rain has fallen all the 
fourteen days, no clouds, except long white mare's tails, and 
billows of translucent white, have floated over the brilliant 
blue of the sky. But August is here, the sultriness is inde- 
scribable, and as before dawn it is darkest, so at its hottest, 
it must cool ofE Changes in sky, and sea, and land, pro- 
claim that a mid-summer tempest is at hand, anH that kindly 
showers will soon refresh the quivering earth. 

At Charlton Place, life goes on with little outward change 
or incident, but each in her way, and very qxetly, all these 
good people, according to their light, are making their little 



r ram game was hade. 

The heal prevents much going abroad* bat in the early 
aborning, and dewy evenings, Captain Dick devotes himself 
to his step-father's fair guests, like the gallant gentleman he 
is. There are long rows and sails, in the pink dawn, and 
the white night, long drives or rambles in the starry twilight, 
a picnic once out in the woods behind St. Ann's, visits to 
Shaddeck Light, where lengthy-limbed Daddy reigns alone. 
For Captain Ffrench has pretty well thrown aside scientific 
books, and charts, and drawings — if he is to give up Hondu- 
ras, what are all these things but bitterness of spirit ? There 
has been a dinner party at which the nobility and gentry of 
St Ann's have mustered strong — the Howells, the Deerings, 
the Sleights — all the landed proprietors have been bidden, 
and have come. There have been a few innoxious high 
teas, perpetual croquet, a good deal of piano-playing, and 
unlimited flirtation. For during August, young men come 
to St Ann's and fish up in the hill-side tarns, drive fast 
horses, play polo and billiards, and recuperate generally, 
amid the daisies and dandelions, causing innumerable flutters 
among the unappropriated hearts spoken of in Captain 
Ffrench's letter, and adding insult to injury, when they say 
smiling good-byes under the August moon, and depart un 
scathed. 

They love and they ride away, these brilliant golden youths, 
sons and nephews of the first families mentioned above, and 
rack little of the cracked vestal hearts, and sighing autumn 
winds they leave behind 

Matters progress smoothly at Charlton. The master of 
the manor beams through his double eyeglass, and sees all 
things working together to accomplish the desire of his heart 
Dick goes no more to Shaddeck Light. He makes a social 
martyr of himself and drinks iced tea and lemonade, load 
with his hands in h/s pockets, amid the croquet players, with 
no outward sign oi the inward disgust that consumes him; 
takes Eleanor out for lengthy rambles in the gray of the July 



78 MOW THE GAME WAS MADE. 

eveningly is charioteer of the dainty phaeton, and bowls fit J 
over the long, dusty country roads, prevails upon her to gel 
up mornings and go out with him upon the high seas in tbs 
Nixie. Sometimes Vera is of the party, oftener they an 
alone. Once or twice, Mr. Charlton has come upon him 
stretched at beauty's feet, in the long golden afternoons, 
leading aloud Tennyson, or Mrs. Browning, and a muscular 
young man must be pretty far gone when he comes to that 
Eleanor's sweet serious face is a book the astute old gentle- 
man cannot read — if she suffers, she suffers in silence, and 
trains her countenance well. Of the storms, the scoldings, 
the reproaches, the coaxings, the tempests of tears, that ob- 
tain almost nightly, no one dreams. Perhaps Dora guesses 
— those pale, cold blue eyes of hers glitter with maliciously 
knowing light, sometimes, but certainly no one else does. 
She is forced upon Richard Ffrench, neither he nor she can 
avert it — " who is stronger than his fate ? " — and she accepts 
her part almost apathetically. She cannot get away, and 
until he speaks she can say nothing. He is not very badly 
hurt, and she likes him for his honest, simple desire to please 
his father. She looks at him with kindly, half amused, half 
vexed eyes, as he follows her about, moodily sometimes, and 
with his heart en route to Central America, but always bright- 
ening at her smile. 

Captain Dick has quite made up his mind to obey,, hat 
written to Dr. Englehart to tell him so. Ah ! what a pang 
that letter cost him. No woman could ever lacerate the 
captain's heart as that letter did. Since he is to obey, he 
will obey with a good grace — cheerily given, is twice given ; 
and with Eleanor for his wife, and croquet, and afternoon 
tea at an end forever, surely he will be an ungracious dog 
if he is nM happy. At present, tb? slops, and the balls, and 
mallets are part of his duty as a wooer, and Dick Ffrench be- 
lieves in facing his duty without flinching. Every day his 
admiration for Eleanor becomes more profound ; it is a lib- 



mOW THE GAME WAS MADE. 79 

end education to convene with her. And then the is it 
good, so pure, so earnest, so true. 

" A man should go up a ladder to look for a friend, and 
down a ladder to look for a wife,*' says the cynical old axiom, 
but Richard Ffrench has not a grain of cynicism in him, and 
does not believe it. Mentally, he holds a man's wife should 
be his equal, morally, his superior. Veneration is an essential 
element in his love ; Miss Charlton commands homage and 
esteem, wherever she goes. If a man cannot be happy as 

her husband Lying on his back, on the grass, his hands 

clasped under his head, his eyes on the sailing clouds, Dick 
breaks off here. What right has he to think she will ever 
accept him ? Is it likely that so charming a girl has reached 
three-and-twenty with her heart untouched ? He does not 
tike the idea of leasing for life a heart that has held former 
lodgers, and been swept and garnished after, for him. Dora's 
sting has not rankled ; he is the most unsuspicious of human 
beings ; her little poisoned shaft has fallen harmless. And 
Mrs. Charlton has told the governor, who has told him, that 
it will be all right 

Confound the old lady, Dick thinks — it is brushing the 
bloom off his peach, it is desecrating what should be sacred 
to Eleanor and himself this vulgar match-making. Is not 
the uncertainty, the dourt, the hope, the despair, half the 
delight of wooing ? 

No word, no look of hers, have ever held out the faintest 
hope ; the smile that welcomes his coming, speeds his part- 
ing ; she is as serenely unconscious of his transparent meaning, 
as that star up yonder, tremulous in the blue. Well — it is 
best so— who cares for the plum ready to drop into his mouth 
the moment it is opened ? 

No more than the others, can he see the pain, the shame, 
the martyrdom, the girl endures for his sake. In her room 
at night, the old battle rages, mutely on her part, furiously 
en her mother's. It is the grert stake of Mrs. Charltoa'f 



W MOW TME OAMM WAS MADE. 

life, all her hopes are in it As the motner of the rich Mrm 
Ffrench her future is secured. Shall she for a whim, a non- 
sensical, sentimental whim of Eleanor's, yield her point ? We 
none of us like to be beaten — Mrs. Charlton likes it less 
than the majority ; in point of fact, she seldom knows when 
she is beaten, and often wins in the end through sheer ob- 
stinacy and pig-headedness. So the nightly war goes on. 
The field is free to Eleanor, now, even Dora has accepted 
defeat gracefully, and retired. To-morrow or the next day, 
Richard Ffrench will speak ; it is only for Eleanor to say a 
simple " yes," and open paradise to her whole family. 

Dora has retired from the contest. With perfect good 
humor Miss Lightwood has resigned the prize ; is " scratched," 
in sporting parlance, for the race ; has thrown up the sponge 
to Fate ; has lain down her cards before the game has fairly 
begun. A smiling change has come oyer her; she is the 
sunshine of the house ; she is gracious even to Mrs. Charlton. 
No one of them all is as much at home in Charlton as she. She 
inspects the dining-room and table, before each meal, adorns 
it with flowers, and flits about like a sunbeam. In the even- 
ings, when Eleanor wanders through the grounds with Dick, 
or Vera plays in unison with the violin, Dora takes a hand 
at whist, with a dummy, and the dowager, and the master of 
the house. She does not know much about the obsolete 
game, but she is bright and quick, and learns rapidly. Some- 
times her eyes wander away from her ''trumps, to the pair at 
the piano, or to the cool, wide window, and a singular smile 
gleams in her eyes. Perhaps that conversation over the 
orchard wall has something to do with it ; both these people 
are transparent to her. 

When the lover speaks, the maiden will say no. And in 
Us pain, his chagrin, to whom so likely, as to her soothing 
little self, is this big blundering captain likely to turn? 
Hearts and rubber balls are best caught on the rebound. 
Dosa b making haete slowly, and meantime k winning 



BOW THR GAME *AS MADE. Si 

golden opinions from all sorts or people — from the kitchen- 
maids below stairs, to the Seigneur of Charlton, who calls 
her the sunbeam of the house. 

For Vera, the last of this family group, she is fairly puzzled 
To give up anything on which she has once set her heart, is 
not like Dora, and yet Dora seems to be doing it here. She 
has resigned almost without a struggle. Presently Charlton 
will be but a beautiful dream of the past, and life will recom 
mence amid the crash, and turmoil, and din, and dust of 
New York. Oh 1 dear ! And Dot must go back to the 
show-rooms on Fourteenth Street ; poor Dot 1 who is never 
strong, who has a hacking cough in the winter, who has 
something the matter with her heart, and who was told long 
ago that a life free from care and anxiety was absolutely 
necessary to her. It is for Dot, Vera mourns. But, after 
all, if Captain Dick cares for Nelly, Nelly he must have. 
In all the world there is neither king nor kaiser to be named 
in the same breath with this splendid Captain Dick, who has 
been everywhere, and seen and done everything ; who has 
fought like a hero, who is gentle as a woman, who is strong, 
and brave, and good, and kind, and learned, and clever, 
and — in one word — perfection. 

It is simply one of the fixed laws of nature, that Captain 
Dick shall have everything he wants, and if he wants Eleanor, 
Eleanor he must have, and the loss is poor Dot's — that is 
all. Nelly is the dearest, the sweetest of created beings } 
sne is almost good enough even for the peerless Richard, and 
Vera hopes in her warm little heart, they will be— oh, so 
happy. Sometimes, perhaps, in the summers to come, they 
may invite her and Dora down, and it is good and magnani- 
mous of Dors to give up so easily, and devote herself to the 
house, and the card-playing, and refuse to go with them, 
even when she— Vera — makes a third, and laugh and stay at 
borne, and write letters tor Mr. Charlton, and superintend 
things generally, as if she were Dick's sister, and the littk 
4* 



82 BOW TME GAME WAS MADK. 

daughter of the house. Vera is all in a glow of admiration 
for her sister, for Eleanor, for Dick. There never were such 
lovely people, she thinks, with enthusiasm! nor such a para- 
dise of a place before, 

But a change is at hand. For the last two days, the sui 
has gone down lurid and angry ; copper-colored clouds chase 
each other over the sky, the surf booms sullenly down or 
the sand, a coming storm is near. The moral atmosphere 
is charged with electricity as well, a crisis is at hand. Elea- 
nor looks pale and frightened, Richard loses his appetite to 
an extent that alarms Vera. He smokes a great deal more 
than is good for him ; he has been out for two successive 
nights on the Bay. Vera wonders if everybody has it as badly 
as this, and if so, how is it that married men and women look 
so dreadfully commonplace and prosy, all the rest of their 
lives. She wishes — for Dick's sake — it were well over, she 
wishes, for Dick's sake, that Eleanor would put him out of 
his misery, and let him have a Christian relish for his victuals, 
and a sensible nighf s sleep once more. 

One afternoon — it is drawing close upon dinner-time — she 
curls herself up among a pile of cushions in the dusky draw 
ing-room, and drops asleep. It has been oppressively sultry 
all day ; the weather is asphyxiating ; to double up some* 
where and go to sleep, is a necessity of life. Vera sleeps 
and dreams. She dreams of the person who was last in her 
waking thoughts, Captain Dick. She is urging upon him a 
large slice of bread and butter, and he is gloomily declining. 
Can bread and butter, he darkly demands, minuter to a mind 
diseased ? It is certainly Captain Dick's voice that is speak- 
ing, and the tone is more tense and troubled than that ia 
which one generally declines the staff |f life. It is a sup- 
pressed tone, too. 

" It is reall) not ther. ?" he is saying, "there is no hope? 

"It is no. 'another voice, a dist r es se d voice, this time. 



MOW THE CAME WAS MAML 

answers. " Oh 1 Captain Ffrench, do yon not think I would 
have prevented this if I could ? But what could I do ? You 
do not know — you do not know " 

" I know that for all the world I would not distress you,* 
the deeper tone breaks in ; " that you gave me no reason to 
hope. I know that I hold you higher than all women, and 
that if you could care for me, it would make the happiness 
of my life. I am not worthy of you — few men could be ; 
but as Heaven hears me, I would try. Eleanor 1 think again 
— must it be no?" 

" It must be no." 

And then Vera starts up in wild affright, and stares about 
her. They do not seejier, but there they are, standing to- 
gether by the window. - Their backs are turned — the door is 
near — she must escape. Oh ! how awful if they should 
catch her here — a spy 1 In a mortal panic she rises, sidles 
out of the room, and sits flat down on the hall floor— crushed J 

Crushed 1 It is all over, the great agony is at an end, he 
has put his fate to the touch and lost it alL Eleanor has re- 
fused him, refused Richard Ffrench, refused the heir of 
Charlton, refused the best, the bravest, the most beautiful of 
his sex, refused a hero, a demi-god, refused Captain Dick I 
Vera sits stunned. There are antitheses the human mind 
declines to take in — this is one. To refuse Captain Ffrench, 
for any woman to say no to such a man 1 By and by Vera 
may get over this ; at present the blow has felled her. She 
sits perfectly motionless. Captain Dick has asked Eleanor 
to marry him, and Eleanor has said no. 

And then in Vera's breast a great indignation rises and 
burns. How dare she ! To think of her presuming to make 
him unhappy ; of her presuming to refuse him anything ! II 
she feels so crushed, so outraged, how must he feel ? It is 
as if the regicidal hand of the base-born Beggar Maid had 
lifted and stabbed King Cophetua to the heart, in the hour 
i/ his kingly condescension ! She wtil nevei like Eleanoi 



MOW THE GAME WAS MA3M. 

any more, never. Nothing that can happen to her will evei 
be too bad. She deserves to have to teach music to the last 
day of her life, she deserves to have such a mother, she de- 
serves to be an old maid. Oh I why has it not been Dot ? 
Dot would never have said no. Dot would not have made 
him miserable. What will Mr. Charlton say ? and will Dick 
rush away in a frenzy to the other end of die world, to the 
torrid or the arctic sones, and become a gloomy misanthrope 
forever after? 

A sound — a door opens—it is Eleanor coming out She 
nearly stumbles over Vera. Her (ace is pale, her eyes red, 
she has been crying. Good enough for her, Vera thinks, 
viciously ; she hopes she will cry her eyes and nose as red 
as they deserve to be. She flashes a glance of anger and 
scorn upon her, but Miss Charlton does not seem to see it. 
She hurries away, and upstairs. And then through the 
open door-way Vera sees Captain Dick, his hat pulled well 
over his eyes, striding down the garden, and out of sight 
Vera's first impulse is to go after him to comfort him, and 
Vera's rule of life is to act on impulse. She is on her feet in 
a moment, but before she can dart o% Dora comes rustling 
down-stairs, in a dinner dress, as blue as her eyes, and lays 
hold of her. 

" Where are you going? n she asks. 
> "After him," answers Vera, "don't stop m% Dot If 
pou knew how unhappy he is ■ " 

" Ah ! " says Dora, and laughs, "you have overheard than 
—it ha* come? She said no, of course?" 

"She said no, and I hate her 1 * cries Vera. 

" I thought it was coming — I have seen the signs and the 
tokens before," laughs Dora, still retaining her hold. " No, 
my dear, you must not go after Captain Dick ; it would not 
be proper; he would not thank you, and he is past all com* 
farting of yours. But he will get over it, it is a way men 
have. How ioes my hair look done in this* style, and de 



THE END OP THE FAIRY TALE. 

not these pink roses go exquisitely with this shade a! VIm ? 
I am afraid my charming toilet will be thrown away oa poor 
Captain Dick." Dot's elfish laugh sounds more shrill than 
uiuaL " He snubbed me unmercifully one night, not lo*g 
ago— it is my turn now." 




CHAPTER X. 

THS XMD OP THE FAIRY TAIJU 

,OOM has fallen upon the Charlton household. It 
is so dark at half-past six, the dinner hour, that 
they are forced to light the gas. Miss Charlton 
has a headache, and does not appear. Captain Ffrench comes 
in late, and manfully does his best to seem as usual, but the 
effort is not the success it deserves to be. Vera's eyes, in 
their wistful brown beauty, rest on him, full of mingled ad- 
miration and compassion. She thinks of the Spartan boy 
and his cloak, and the wolf gnawing at his vitals— or was it a 
fox? The race of Spartans is not extinct, for here is Cap- 
tain Dick essaying cheerful commonplaces, and sipping veuvt 
tliquot) as though he liked both, bearing himself as bravely 
as though his heart had not just been broken. Dora shines 
with abnormal brilliancy, her blue eyes flash, her delicats 
cheeks flush, her shrill laugh rings eut ; she rallies Captain 
Dick until he barns to shy his dinner-plate at her. She is a 
social meteor, quite dazzling in fact, and Mr. Charlton, look- 
•fig and listening admiringly, wonders what the house will be 
like when she is gone. 

After dinner Vera goes to tta piano. She is fond of music, 
and the evening is the only time cool enough for so mrch 
exertion. Mechanically, Dick follows her, and leans with 
folded arms upon the instrument, staring in a blank sort of 



THR END OF THR FAIRY TALE. 

way at a picture on the wall above it* It is Cenci , ini tht 
dusk prophetic face, with its haunting, wistful eyes, reminds 
him somehow of Vera herself. He is glad to get away from 
Dora ; her covert innuendoes have been stabbing him like 
knives. 

"What a little devil's doll she is 1" he thinks, with very 
unusual savagery. " How does she come to know anything 
about it so soon ? ' 

Vera's music soothes him. A dreary sense of loss and 
pain oppresses him. If he were only free to go with the ex- 
pedition — if the governor had not wrung that half promise 
from him. For the present he must go away somewhere, it 
would be horribly uncomfortable for Eleanor to have him in 
the house. How nobly she spoke, how lovely she looked, 
with great tears in her eyes, and divine pity in her face. Ah 1 
fa never deserved such a prize, great rough fellow that he is, 
and yet if she could have cared for him 

•• The moon* • on the lake, and the mist's on the brae, 
And the dan has a name that is namrifiw by day," 

Vera's sweet, strong voice rings out spiritedly the stirring 
Scotch ballad. 

It is oppressively close. Sheet lightning is blazing in con- 
tinual zig-zags all along the horizon — paling the yellow glean 
of the lamps. Now and then, a great drop plashes audibly 
outside ; from the sea comes at intervals, a low, weird moan- 
ing, as of a sentient thing in pain. The trees writhe and toss 
wildly in the darkness— all nature feels the coming convul- 
sion, and shrinks, 

" The storm is very near," says Mr. Charlton, lifting hii 
white head. " We will have it to-night" 

They do not talk much, this evening, the oppression of 
the atmospheric change is upon them all. But Dora keeps 
brilliant and sparkling to the last ; plays a game of chess 
wkh her host, and going to the piano afterwards, sings, at his 



TBE MMD OF THE fAIRY TALE. 8f 

request, the old time love ditty of Barbara Allan, Captain 
Ffrench does not leave his post, and the malice in the spark- 
ling eyes of the singer gleams laughingly out as she looks op 
at him. 

" Then slowly, slowly, came she up, 
And slowly came the nigh him, 
And all ihe said, when there the cane, 
• Young man, I think you're dying I ' " 

"It is curious," she says, and laughs, "but Nelly always 
puts me in mind of cruel Barbara Allan. I can fancy net 
walking up to the deathbed of some love-lorn swain, and 
calmly saying, 'Young man, I think you're dying 1 ' Werth- 
er's Charlotte must have been of that type, pale, passionless 
—don't you think so ? You remember Thackeray's funny 
version of the tragedy — ' Charlotte, when she saw his body 
borne past her on a shutter, like a well-conducted person, 
went on cutting bread and butter.' Nelly would go on cut- 
ting bread and butter too. What do you think about it, 
Captain Ffrench?" 

She is laughing immoderately at the young man's disgusted 
bee, and without waiting for reply, returns to the chess-table* 
and challenges Mr. Charlton to another game. With the 
streaming light of the chandelier full upon her, her gleaming 
prettuiess looks uncanny. Mrs. Charlton watches her sotxriy 
for a while, then, complaining of the heat, gets up and goes. 

"Tell poor dear Nelly how much we have missed her/ 1 
calls Itora, with her mocking smile ; " I do so hope her 
headache is better. To-morrow, you know, Captain Ffrench 
and Mr. Fred Howell are to take us over to the Pine Barren. 
It wot Jit be such a pity if she could not go.' 1 

A malevolent glance is the elder lady's answer. Not a 
spark of Dora's eldritch malice is lost upon her. All even- 
ing she has been uncomfortable. Eleanoi's absence, and 
keaaache — she is not subject to headache ; Dick Ffrench' s 
tsoody sflonce — these are alarming token*. Can it be— ijm 



W TBE END OF THE FAIRY TALE. 

the sultriness of the airless night her blood chills at tha 
thought)— can it be that Eleanor has carried oat her reckless 
threat, and refused him ? Refused Charlton 1 refused the 
finest fortune in the State. Her hands clench, her hard eyes 

flash. If she has 

********* 

The gloom deepens with the morning, both witoin and 
without All night long the rain has poured in torrents, is 
pouring still, when Vera comes down-stairs. It hardly waits 
to pour, it drives in white blinding sheets of water, over land 
and sea, it drifts furiously against the glass, it beats down 
flowers and trees. A high wind is blowing outside. Where 
she stands Vera can hear the thunder of the surf on the 
shore ; it is no child's play down among the white caps, this 
August morning. How those white sea-horses must toss 
their foamy manes, and churn, and break, and roar about 
Shaddeck Light. She hopes Daddy is not nervous, alone 
there on that lonely rock, in this shrill whistling storm. How 
good of Captain Dick to have rescued that poor half-witted 
lad, the butt of the town, half-starved, wholly beaten, and 
given him a home in the little island house. 

She wonders how Captain Dick feels this morning, if he 
slept last night. People crossed in love do not, as a rule* 
sleep over well, Vera has understood. Who would have 
thought Eleanor could be so cold-hearted, so cruel, so blind 
to so much perfection. But, perhaps, she likes some one 
else ; it seems impossible though that any woman could be 
faithful to any man, after seeing this king among men. 
Surely infidelity in such a case would be a positive virtue. 
There must be some reason. No sane human being could 
do so extraordinary a thing, without i powerful motive. 

Perhaps Eleanor has a clandestine husband already, down 
there in Louisiana — she has read of such things in novels. 
Vent's ideas are thrown, so to speak, on their hind legs ; shf 
is trying with all her might to account fix* Eleanor's fo&st 



m MMD OF THE FAIXY TALE. 

She finds, upon consideration, that ihe cannot hate her, dial 
•he is more disposed this morning to look upon her in sorrow 
than in anger ; but the reason that is strong enough to make 
her say no to Captain Dick, is beyond all surmise of hers. 

As she stands, Eleanor comes down. Her face is start- 
Sngly pale, her eyes have a wild, hunted, frightened look, all 
the sweet and gracious calm, that makes her greatest charm, 
is gone. She looks as though she had not slept, her lip* 
tremble, as she says good-morning. 

"You are sick!" Vera exclaims. "You look as if yo« 
had been sick a week. Were you awake all night ? Was it 
the storm ? " 

She makes a gesture of assent, and coming close to the 
window, lays her forehead against the glass, with a sort of 
low moan. Vera's eyes fill with a great compassion. Can ii 
be that she loves Captain Dick after all, that some reason 
obliges her to refuse him, and that she is suffering sH this 
anguish on his account ? She softens, the last remnant of her 
indignation fades away. Miss Charlton is not wholly har^ 
dened then, after alL 

"Does your head ache still?" she softly asks, coming 
close. " Poor dear Nelly I I am so sorry/ 9 

Eleanor passes her arm around the girl's slender waist, bat 
does not otherwise reply. In her eyes there is such hopeless 
trouble, such dark terror, that it frightens Vera. 

How is the child to know of the horrible scene enacted in 
Eleanor's room last night— of the bitter storm of reproaches, 
of vulgar vituperation, of fierce threats, under which she 
shrank and cowered ? She turns sick at heart now, as she 
recalls it In all her mother's furious rages, she has never 
seen the fury of last night equalled. She has not slept at 
■U ; her head aches, her body aches, her heart aches, she 
seems one sickening ache from head to foot And it is to go 
on forever, day after day, month after month, the same 
Miserable, ceaseless scold, scold, scold, to the bitter end* 



00 TMM END OF TMR FAIRY TALE. 

Mr*. Charlton does not appear at breakfast. The truth 
is, she has raged herself ill, and into a fit of blackest 
sulks. Eleanor is forbidden to enter her room, whether she 
lives or dies, to speak to her no more, until she comes 
to her senses. One of the maids fetches her np tea and bat- 
tered toast; her daughter knows her too well to dare to 
disobey. 

Captain Ffrench is absent aiso. Late last night, it seems, 
after the family had retired, he went to St Ann's, and now, of 
course, is storm-bound. Dora trips down, the sparkle of last 
night scarcely dimmed. Not all the sweeping tempest of 
wind and rain is able to blur one jot of her gay brightness. 
Mr. Charlton comes, but less debonair than usual. In point 
of fact his old enemy, rheumatic gout, has been shooting 
warning twinges for the past two or three days, and this 
morning he is barely able to hobble to breakfast. He knows 
what is in store for him, doubly trying now, with a houseful 
of fair guests, but it is one of the things no fine old gentleman 
of his years and habits can hope to escape, and he puts the 
best possible face on his affliction. 

Dora is full of sweetest commiseration, Eleanor has a far- 
away frightened look still in her eyes, and eats nothing at 
all Vera feels that in common sympathy she, toe*, should 
eat nothing, with the whole family so to say in extremis , 
but her appetite remains a painful and powerful fact, and 
will not be said nay. She is ashamed of herself, and con- 
sumes muffins and fresh eggs in a sneaky, apologetic fashion, 
and is relieved when the ordeal is over. 

And now the long day begins. Rain, rain, rain— oh ! 
how it pours — it looks as if it might come down for a week. 
Mr. Charlton is forced to return to his study, leaning on 
Dora's arm which she insists on his taking. They look so 
absurd — the tall, elderly invalid, and the mite of a woman, 
hobbling away together, that Vera's gravity is nearly upset 
Certainly sh? is an unfeeling little wretch, to be able tt 



TMm m.VD or tmr fairy tale. ft 

laugh with everybody else so miserable, so she sits sly rt> 
presses a small grin, and heaves a sigh instead. 

What shall she do with herself all this long wet day 
Dora does not return, Eleanor goes upstairs; she is aO 
alone in the big, silent house. What a dismal change two 
days have made. Perhaps Captain Dick will come back no 
more. It is not the rain that detains him in St. Ann's — ah ! 
no, he is neither sugar nor salt to care for a drenching. He 
has been crossed in love, and is dying hard over there at the 
St Ann's HoteL Perhaps he will start for Central America, 
and never even come back to say good-by. 

Vera is absurd, but she is none the less unhappy ; she has 
unutterable sympathy for Captain Dick, she has a mild regret 
lor Eleanor. She gazes forlornly at the rain, life's troubles 
are so much easier to bear, when the weather is propitious. 
And then there is sickness in the house, and it will seem 
unfeeling to sit down and practice. If one could only sleep 
all day 1 But one cannot, so, with another vast sigh, Vera 
gets up, goes for a book, and prepares to devote the long 
hours to literature. 

Evening comes, and brings little change. It still rains, 
the sky looks sullen, the black surcharged clouds good for 
two days more of it Mrs. Charlton descends to dinner, but 
Lot's wife, changed to a basaltic column, was never more 
frigid, more awfuL Their host is unable to appear — he has 
been suffering martyrdom all day ; even Dora, ministering 
angei that she is, can do little to assuage his anguish. The 
absent heir cometh not, but just before dinner, Daddy comes 
with a note* It is for Mr. Charlton, and is of the briefest 

" My Dba* Governor . — Englehart came to-day, and is at the St 
Ana's. He means to stay a week or two, to recruit, haying been laid 
ep lately. Knowing your prejudice, I will not, of course, bring him to 
Charlton, bnt shall remain with him here instead. Make my ■naUnpnj 
to the Indian. 

"Ever yoor*ft.C F.» 



mm «r rmm w*ntr tal*. 

Mr. Chariton's free darkens heavily as he reads thk 
Naturally he is choleric, he hates to be thwarted ; by ten* 
per he is imperious, although as yet his step-son has sees 
little of this. A man may be good-humored and hot-tempered 
easily enough at the same time. He has never very strongly 
opposed himself to Richard Ffrench as yet, he has been 
comparatively a poor man until of late, and never felt justi- 
fied in coming between the lad and his whims. But now it 
is different If Dick prefers this wandering Dr. Englehart 
to him, why then Dick must take the consequences. Dora 
has hinted something to him to-day, which he finds it diffc- 
cult to believe — that Eleanor Charlton has refused him. Is 
the girl mad ? He hardly knows how, but Dora's talk has 
irritated him to a most unusual degree against Richard. His 
illness, too, has made him nervous and excitable. The line 
must be drawn somewhere; he is prepared to take his stand 
here. Dick must pay some deference to his wishes ; all he 
has, he is willing, nay anxious to give the boy. It is a noble 
inheritance. He loves him as he loves nothing else on 
earth, he wants him with him, and he must have him. He 
is growing old ; it is only fair his son should stay with him, 
that there should be some return for so much lavish gener- 
osity and affection. It is a selfish monologue, partly engen- 
dered by irritating pain, partly by wily words of Dora. That 
is a charming little girl, he thinks— on the whole he begins 
to prefer her to Eleanor. He does not fancy young people 
under a cloud — then Eleanor has a mother, and as a perma- 
nence Mrs. Charlton is not to be desired. 

Outside the rain pours steadily and monotonously — inside 
there are silent rooms and some gloomy faces. Dora's 
spirits never flag through the whole of it. She appoints her- 
self sick-nurse, she writes letters, she reads aloud, her touch 
is soft and soothing, she never wearies, she manufactures 
her own sunshine, and brings it with her into the dim cham- 
ber of torture. If any earthly thing or creature could alto 



TMB END OF 7WM FAIRY TALM. 91 



viete the agony of rheumatic gout— which they 
would be Dora and her doings. 

Night falls wet and starless — another morning dawn* 
Still the rain comes down persistently, doggedly, still the sky 
is lowering, still the surf roars and breaks over sand and 
shingle. Another long day for Vera to yawn through, and 
stare blankly out of blurred window-panes, to wander aim- 
lessly about the house. She visits Eleanor in her chamber 
but her visit is a dreary one. Dot is taken up with the sick 
seigneur, Mrs. Charlton is like a gorgon, these days, and the 
girl flies at her approach. Vera has heard of the evil eye, 
and ponders whether Eleanor's awful mother has not got it — 
a pair of them indeed. And where is Captain Dick ? Oh I 
where, in all this world of rain, and wind, and mist, and 
ery, and love-sickness, and gout, is Captain Dick? 

Another night, another day, and then her hero comet. 

He comes after breakfast, looking little the worse for 
His heart may be broken, but he has neither lost vigor not 
good looks. On the contrary, he is brighter than when he 
left, and he greets Vera with the old pleasant, half mischiev- 
ous smile. 

Vera is glad, but a trifle disappointed all the same ; it is 
better for him to take it in this way, but it is not the way the 
gentleman in Locksley Hall took it, or that other poetical 
party in Lady Vere de Vere. They scowled and gloomed, 
and abused their young women (in hexameters) for years 
after. If Dick is a hero it is his duty to behave as such. 

Captain Ffrench has come to see his step-father, and is 
ushered by Dora into that dusk temple of pain, of which she 
has elected herself priestess. Mr. Charlton lifts a face all 
drawn and haggard with two days of torment 

* My dear governor," the young man says, leaning over 
the back of his sofa, " this is too bad. You so seldom have 
an attack of this kind in summer either. How did you reel 
last night ? I trust the pain was not altogether unbearable.* 



MM* 6* TMM FAittY TdZM. 

M Rheumatic goat is siways unbearable," answen Mt 
Charlton, angrily. "You need not ask how I rested, 1 
never rested at alL I have not slept for three nights. 
Why don't you come home ? what are you doing over there 
at St Ann's ? Is % not enough that I must be laid up by 
the legs, but you must desert our guests too ? " 

" I explained all that, you know, governor, in my note. 
Kcglehart is there " 

" Englehart be hanged I What have you to do with that 
wandering Ishraaelite ? Send him to the dogs, and return 
home to your duty." 

"That hardly sounds like you, sir — I don't think yosi 
quite mean it He is partly on the invalid list, too, and 
only able to hobble with a stick. As to his being a wander- 
ing Ishmaelite, that is true enough, but, unfortunately, /an 
of the Ishmaelitish tribe as well." 

" Have been, you mean. We have changed all that, if 
you remember." 

"Governor," says Dick, in his most conciliating voice 
" that is what I have come especially to speak to you about. 
I gave no promise, that evening, you know, I only said 1 
would try. I have tried — and it cannot be done." 

Mr. Charlton half rises, and glances angrily at the young 
man. Pain and sleeplessness have almost changed his 
nature ; he is morbidly irritable, and Dora's hints are rank- 
ling poisonously in his mind. 

" What do you mean ? " he demands. 

" Don't be angry, governor. I am going with the Expe- 
dition." 

Mr. Charlton is staring at him — a glassy stare of amaze 
and anger. He cannot for a moment t&ke this in. He has 
made so sure of Richard — that half promise extorted, seems 
to have made his stay a certainty. \nd now to come and 
tell him deliberately that he is going— 

" Don't be angry," Dick deprecating]/ repeats, " I hate tr 



ram end of tbm fat*/ taul 9% 

oflend you— on my honor I do, air. You are so uncommonly 
good to me— always have been — I cannot forget it, I never 
will forget it Bat all the same, I want you to let me go. 
Say yes, this once, sir, 9 ' he leans over him coaxingly, " and 
ft shall be the last time. I promise you that" 

" You will do precisely as you please," Mr. Charlton 
answers, suppressed passion in every tone. " I withdraw 
all claim upon you from this hour. You are eight-and- 
twenty — you are your own master. Only do not let us 
have any talk of goodness or gratitude ; protestations don't 
count for much, when every action of your life gives them 
the lie." 

Dick starts up, his face flushes dark red He walks away, 
and begins pacing up and down. 

" This is rather hard," he says, after a moment, "what am 
I to do ? I wrote to Englehart resigning my commission, 
and he and the rest of the scientific corps refuse to accept. 
That is why he is here. He holds me to my pledge. What 
am I to do ? I ask you, governor ; in honor I stand 
bound. I have promised." 

There is no reply. Mr. Charlton is so intensely angry 
that he is afraid to allow himself to speak. 

" I cannot go from my word," Dick goes on, "they can- 
not fill my place at a moment's notice, and the Expedition 
cannot afford the inevitable delay. Come, sir 1 " he stops 
before him, and looks down, distressed pleading in his frank, 
honest eyes, " be reasonable. Consent to my going — it will 
be but for a year or two, at most, and then I bind myself to 
devote the whole remainder of my life to you." 

" You are exceedingly kind ; I am sixty-four years of age, 
and can count so confidently on many future years of life. 
No, sir, I refuse my consent. You must choose between Dr. 
Englehart and me, between Honduras and Charlton, and 
you must abide by your choice. Both you cannot have. 
Choose which you please, but remember your choice is for life.' 



TBM END OF TOM FAIRY TAZJL 

The calm young eyes look steadily down into the fteryoU 



" Does that mean, fir, that when I say good-by it it lot 
good and all?. That I am to return here no more?" 

"Exactly 1" Mr. Charlton answers, and the fiery glanoe 
merer flinches, 

Dick drawi a hard breathy turns, and returnee hit walk, 
Ke it sincerely attached to hit step-father, and feels thit 
blow exceedingly. 

" If you go with Dr. Englehart," Mr. Charlton says, hit 
Toice harsh with pain, " it will be because yon prefer him to 
me; prefer your own roving fancy to my happiness or 
wishes. I make no claim upon you, yon are free to go if jam 
see fit. I have never thwarted you before — I am resolute 
now. If you go, in every way in which I can forget you, I 
will forget you — in every way in which I can blot your mem- 
ory out, it shall be blotted out You understand me, sir— in 
every way." 

" You talk plainly, governor — I would be a blockhead in* 
deed, if I did not understand." 

" As to your promise to the scientific corps, that is rub- 
bish. There are men who can fill your place, net only sons 
whose duty calls them at home. It is not your promise, but 
your inclination, that is taking you, and you know it" 

Silence. Dick walks up and down, his hands in hit 
pockets, with downcast and disturbed lace. The elder man 
watches him keenly. 

" And there is Miss Charlton," he resumes, " it strikes me 
your honor — this extremely nice and touchy honor of yours, 
Dick — is at fault there. You have paid her very marked at- 
tention, you have led her and her mother to believe yon 
■scant to marry her. Is it in accord with your high code, to 
pay such attention, and then desert the lady at the last 
moment ? Or have you spoken and been rejected ? " 

Here it a quandary I What is he tosay? If the truth, he 



nOT END OF THE FAIRY TAJUL 9t 

compromises Eleanor irretrievably as far as his rather* a testa* 
mentary intentions are concerned, and she is so poor, so 
poor. He takes his hands out of his pockets, and rumples 
np his hair, in a perfect fever of embarrassment and distress. 

" It seems a difficult question to answer/' says Mr. Charl- 
ton, sarcastically. " Well, don't perjtae yourself my lad. I 
know all about it You asked and she refhsed — the jade I " 

" Who told you that ? " 

" Never mind who. She is a fool, and must pay for hct 
folly. But if you are leaving on her account " 

" Governor,* says Dick, anxiously, " do not— do not, I 
beg, let this influence you against Miss Charlton. From first 
to last she never gave me the slightest encouragement Do 
not hold her accountable for her mother's rash promises, for 
her mercenary hopes. Miss Charlton is the truest, noblest 
woman I have ever met, and — and you know her life-— one 
* demnition grind ' the year round. Do not punish her for 
what she could not help. Be generous, sir, to this young 
lady!" 

" Miss Charlton has made her choice," Mr. Charlton an- 
swers, coldly ; " she too shall abide by it We will not talk 
of this poor young lady, if you please — we will settle your 
affair. When does Dr. Englehart propose leaving St 

Ann's ? " 
" In a few days — next week at the furthest" 

"And you go with him ? " 

" I must The Expedition starts on the twenty-fourth.' 9 

u You go with the Expedition ? " 

" It is inevitable. Be merciful, sir I I would rather cat 
•ff my right hand than deliberately offend you, but I stand 
pledged. My word has been given. I cannot retract" 

" Very well. How much money do you want ? " 

* Sir 1" Dick reddens through his brown skin. 

" How much money do you want ? I presume the sciafr 
tifi* corps will not supply all your wants. Hand me my 
f 



TOE END OF THE FjUMT TAUL 

check took, if you please — I will give 70a a blank check 
which you can fill up at jour leisure. And with it 70a will 
kindly consider oar connection at an end. Any intentions 
I may have announced regarding the disposal of my prop* 
erty, so far as you are concerned, are from this moment 
withdrawn.* 

The flush fades from Dick's face, his lips set, his eyes flash* 
he stops in his walk, and regards the older man steadily. 

"That taunt was not necessary, sir. Whatever opinion 
you may have held of me in the past, I do not think ym 
ever believe the consideration of your fortune influenced any 
action of mine. And it never will. Bestow it upon whom 
you please — no one in the world has less right to it than L 
I have but one parting favor to ask — that you will permit me 
to return once more to Charlton, and say a friendly farewell 
Xoyou" 

He takes his hat He is very pale, and his eyes have a 
pleading look. He holds out his hand. 

" Come, governor," he says, " we cannot part like this. I 
am afraid I look like an ungrateful dog, but — but I know 
how I feeL A fellow can't put that sort of thing into words, 
but by Jove I am sorry " 

He breaks 0% and draws nearer. But Mr. Charlton, 
quite ghastly, between bodily pain and mental emotion, 
waves him away. 

" Such a parting would be a farce. Come home to stay, 
and you know what sort of welcome awaits you. Go with 
your friend, and as my son I renounce you. There can be 
no half-way course." 

" Then good-by, since it must be so." 

He turns, opens the door, lingers yet one moment, in 
hope of some sign of relenting, but the invalid lies with 
closed eyes, spent and exhausted. And so Dick leaves him. 

Is it fancy, or does he hear the rustle of skirts away from 
H» door ? He is too perturbed to tell, but a second aftnt 



mmo or mm famt iuul w 

Don't mailing little free looks oat at dm through another 
half-open doer. 

" Going again, Captain Ffrench ? Will yen not stay to 
luncheon ? No ? How unkind of you 1 How long is youi 
tiresome friend going to keep you over in St Ann's ? Send 
him back to New York, and come home. We all miss you S0 
much." 

Dick smiles at the plaintive tone, and runs down-stairs. 
He distrusts this little woman — he knows she does not mean 
a word she is saying — he knows she dislikes him. 

M Where is Miss Vera?" he asks. 

" Waiting for you, somewhere. The child has been mop* 
ing herself to death in your absence. In common humanity 
to her, you really ought to return. Do come back, Captain 
Ffrench ! " 

She waves her little white hand gayly, and trips away to 
the sick-room. The smile fades from Dick's face, he sighs 
impatiently, as he strides down the hall, and takes a last look 
at everything. 

" Ifs uncommonly hard, by George 1 " he thinks moodily. 
" I hate like the deuce to row with the governor, but what am 
I to do ? Englehart claims me, and he claims me, and 
whose claim is best ? It's a muddle — ah I my little Vera I 
I was just going in search of you. Let me look at you. 
Why, you are actually looking pale. What is the matter ? " 

" Nothing," the girl says, all her great gladness in her 
shining eyes 9 " since jou have come 1 How long you have 
been away, Captain Dick." 

He smiles down into the artless child's eyes, pleased and 
soothed. 

* Has it seemed long 1 It was the weather and not my 
absence, 111 wager a ducat You would never have missed 
me if the sun had shone." 

" Ah 1 you know better than that," Vera answers, heaving 
a sigh of vast content How good, how pleasant, how com* 

278757B 



juki> 4* rmm r*mr 



fortable it teems to have Captain Dick at home- -to hear hii 
deep tones, to see his lofty stature in this Household of 
women. It gives the last touch to the perfection of tier 
paradise. " If the sun, and moon, and stars, all shone to- 
gether, I would miss you just the same." 

" By Jove I " he says, and laughs, " how flattering. I 
thought my vanity had received its death-blow the other day, 
but " 

" I know what you mean," Vera interrupts, hastily. " Oh, 
Captain Dick," clasping her hands, "what will you think of 
me 1 I was there, I overheard all ! At least I heard you — 
and Miss Charlton said— oh I don't be vexed, please I " im- 
ploringly, " I was asleep on the sofa, and the room was so 
dark, and you both came in while I was lying there, and 
didn't see me, and when I awoke you were talking and " 

A light breaks upon Dick. His face grows grave. 

" And you told the gov — Mr. Charlton, Vera ? " 

" Oh, no, no I I told Dot — no, I didn't tell her — she found 
me sitting in the hall, and seemed to know all about it I 
have wanted to tell you ever since. I never said a word to 
any one ; I would not do anything so mean." 

" Not even to Miss Charlton ? " 

"No. I think Eleanor is horrid — I can't bear her ever 
tince. At least, I don't quite mean that, you know, I think 
she is just lovely, only " 

Captain Ffrench smiles again. The outspoken honesty 
and simplicity of this little girl have amused him from the 
first ; her unconcealed fondness and admiration for himself 
flatter him as a maUer of course. Captain Dick is emi- 
nently mortal, and in no interesting little weakness above 
his sex. 

" My dear little Vera ! " you are the stanchest of friends, 
and the dearest little woman, without exception, in the 
world. I wonder now, if you will write to me, when I am 
down there among the silver mines. I am sure you write 



. ram mkd of tmm famy tsmjl 

charming letters— and tell me all about yourself and — j 
about Dot 1" 

Vera's eyes dilate — she stands still and looks up at him ta 
blank, sudden terror. 

" Down among the silver mines 1 What silver mines t 
You are not going away, Captain Ffrench ? " 

" Ah I but I am, and you will be a tall, fascinating young 
lady long before I come back. But you are not to forget me, 

mind. I shall look for those letters Why, Vera, my 

dear I " 

She has turned away from him, and covered her face with 
her hands. The blow is so sudden, so sharp. 

" Vera," he says, " my dear little Vera I " But she doea 
not look up. " Why, my pet, are you so sorry as this ! I 
did not think— Vera ! " He tries to take her hands away, 
but she struggles and resists. 

" Oh I don't," she says, in a stifled voice, " let me be. It 
— it isn't that ! " struggling bravely, " I — I think I am ner 
vous. It is the weather " 

" Of course it is the weather," he returns, promptly ; " be- 
ing shut up in the house so much, is enough to give any one 
the horrors. And it is a little — just a little — that you are 
sorry, too ? " 

" Oh 1 I am sorry ) I am sorry I I am sorry I " she says, 
and breaks down. The last barrier gives way, and she sobs 
with all her heart. 

There is only one sort of consolation for trouble of this 
kind, that Captain Dick knows of, and that is to take her in 
his arms, and give her a kiss. Words are failures. He is 
pleased, he is touched, he is embarrassed, he feels inclined 
to laugh. She is such a child, such a simpleton — not that he 
thinks her a simpleton — not at alL Such a tall child, too, up 
to his 3houlder, now that they stand in this delicate prox- 
imity. 

" Don't, Vera, 1 ' he says. " please don't If anybody cam* 



lOt nor END OP TMM TAOtY TAUL 

There 1 let me wipe them away;" he takes out hit haadkei 
chie£ and performs this needful office. u Don't 07 any 
more. And you'll promise to write to me when I am gone?" 

" Oh I yes, yes." 

" And you won't forget me ? " 

" Oh ! no, no." (A fresh flood.) 

"And you will let Daddy take you oat in die Nixie ? It 
will do both you and the Nixie good." 

"No!" Vera cries, "no! I will never set foot in the 
Nixie again I Oh ! what must you think of me for crying 
like this. But it is so horrid to have p— p — people you like 
go away to hateful places, and n — n — never come back 1 * 

"But I am coming back, my dear, in two years." 

Two years ! why not two centuries — in the eyes of sixteen 
are they not the same ? Vera battles heroically, it does not 
become her to cry, though, to do her justice, the real concern 
she sees in Captain Dick's face is the more powerful motive. 
And yet that questionable smile of his lingers in his eyes. 

"Well, now, Vera, it is all right again, isn't it? I am 
going. No, it is not good-by 'for good' this time — I shall 
be back. Get up early to-morrow — the rain is over for the 
present, and I and the Nixie will be waiting in the old place. 
We shall have half a dozen matutinal sails yet, before we 
say adieu." 

Then he goes, and Vera is alone with her desolation. 
What will Charlton be without Captain Dick? All its green 
beauty will be but a fleeting show, for her illusion given. 
The Nixie, the island, the piano, the basket-carriage — all 
are filled with poignant memories. Why — why must \e go ? 
Why did this hateful man at the hotel ever come down ? 
Why does not the earth open and swallow Honduras and all 
the silver mines in the world ? 

She goes slowly back to the house. The trail of the ser- 
pent is over everything; all — all recalls the lost one. It 
the hall she meets Eleanor, who starts to see the pale, tear 



jjh' or ram fairy tauu wot 

blotted cheeky and reddened eyes of At bright little boo* 
fciry. 

*• Why, Vera," she says, and puts her aim about her, " my 
dear child what is the matter? " 

Bat Vera strikes down the caressing hand, in a very ftuy 
of sadden passion. 

" Do not touch me I " she cries, her Mack eyes blazing, 
"I hate you. He is going, and only for you he wouldn't 
hare gone. I never want to speak to you again, as long aa 
IKycI" 

She dashes away and up to her room, flings herself on her 
bed, and cries passionately. 

Her great hero is going — after that the deluge. She will 
never see him again. Years from now, he may return, but 
where will she be. He will have forgotten her, and she 
likes him— oh I she likes him I she likes him 

" I wouldn't cry, if I were you," says the placid voice of 
Dora. She has entered unheard, drawn by the sound of 
vehement sobbing; "there is not a man on earth worth 
blearing one's eyes for, and not one of them all was won yet 
by crying. He will come back, my dear, and then if you 
really are so fond of " 

Vera starts up, goaded beyond endurance. 

"What do you want here ? Get out of my room, Dot I 
How do you know I am crying for — for him ? I'm n$i I 
Go, and leave me alone." 

And Dora, laughing to herself, goes. Vera is alone. And 
this is the end of her fairy tale. It keeps saying itseh over 
and over in her mind — "And the prince went away t» mk 
his fortune, and never, never, never came back." 



104 MMJU-OMOC immt. 




CHAPTER XX 

IIADDICK LIGHT. 

|HREE days have gone by. To the casual observes 
they have brought little change, but changes then 
are. First and chief, Mr. Charlton's attack if 
going off; in a week he hopes to be about again. Next, the 
rain is over, and once more there is sunshine, and early rising 
on Vera's part, rows in the Nixie, and visits to Shaddeck. 
The agony of parting is inevitable, but it is yet two days ofl£ 
and Vera never crosses her bridges until she comes to them. 
Captain Dick is still to be seen, to be heard, to be admired 
— next Thursday will surely come, but this is only Monday, 
and there are yet forty-eight hours, two thousand and eight 
hundred and eighty minutes between her and desolation. 

It is the evening of Monday. Eleanor Charlton sits in 
her room — she spends most of her time there, of late, and 
looks out with dreary eyes over the fair summer prospect 
She is at odds, it seems, with all the household, her mother 
most of all. For three days Mrs. Charlton has not spoken 
to her — she is the sort of person to live in the house with 
you, and not speak to you for a month. Not that, in a gen- 
eral way, this could be looked upon as a misfortune — rather 
the opposite — but it is sometimes an embarrassment Dora 
b always pleasant ; it is Dora's rdle to smile, and smile, and 
be a little villain ; but from Dora, Eleanor has instinctively 
shrunk from the first Dora's smiles are spurious currency, 
not sterling coin. Between her and Vera, a cloud hovers ; 
it is six feet high, and answers to the name of Captain Dick, 

Mr. Charlton, on the occasion of Eleanor's only visit, has 
received her with such chilling politeness, that she never had 
the heart to go near his study again. He knows all, and re- 



mar ummr. Mf 

sents her refusal. Captain Ffrenchis going away, and she k 
responsible, it seems. Charlton is no longer a home, even a 
temporary home for her. She has thought the matter oat, 
and made np her mind to go. She had intended to stay 
until the end of the month, bat that is impossible now. Ohl 
if she could have bat foreseen, and never come. She is pay* 
ing dearly for her fidelity to one whom, deep down in her 
heart, she knows to be unstable as water, yielding as shifting 
sand. The knowledge is there, bat she will not listen. Loy- 
ally she forces herself to hope, to trust, to believe in this 
man, to whom — how, she knows not — she has given net 
heart She cannot recall the gift, because growing fear is 
upon her that he is unworthy, selfish, cowardly, self-indul- 
gent, lazy. Circumstances are against him — it is not his will 
mat is in fault — by nature he is indolent and without earnest* 
ness of purpose, and nature is an obdurate foe to fight 
Time, age, love for her, will work wonders ; so she forces 
herself to believe. She respects, admires, likes, esteems 
Richard Ffrench. He is in earnest ; with all his might he 
does the thing which his hand finds to do. Life to him is no 
vapid, wearisome day, to be yawned through anyhow ; he 
has energy, resolution, force of character, strength, all that 
she prizes most. If Ernest were but like him 1 And then, 
indignant with herself she banishes the disloyal thought 
Whatever Ernest is, he is hers. She has chosen, and she 
wDl be faithful to her choice. 

It is a sultry and overcast evening. It has been at its 
hottest and fieriest all day ; just ww black clouds are rising, 
and there is that oppression in the air which betokens a 
bunder-storm. .There is not a breath of wind stirring, na- 
ture stands motionless, bracing itself for the coming shock. 
Presently Eleanor rises, and goes K> her mother's room. It 
is the hour before dinner, and she knows she will find hei 
mere. She is paler than usual, she has lost flesh and strength 
in the past week, she feels very little like the ordeal before 



Mf aMADDMCK 

her. Bat it mast be met, and Eleanor Chariton la not tha 
woman to shrink plain duty. 

Mrs. Charlton sits hem-stitching a fine pockethandker* 
chief; she does not deign to glance up as her daughter en 
ten ; her dumb familiar still holds possession of her. 

" Mother/' Eleanor says, plunging into the worst at once 
"I am going away." 

No reply ; Mrs. Charlton stitches away with the steadiness 
of a machine. 

"I am unhappy here; I have displeased Mr. Charlton, 
offended Captain Ffrench, and angered you. It is impossi* 
ble for me to stay. I am sorry I came — sorrier than sorry; 
nothing remains for me but to leave at once." 

Silence. An angry red is rising over Mrs. Charlton's large 
fleshy face, but her lips only tighten into a tenser line. 

" I have money sufficient to pay my travelling expenses," 
Miss Charlton steadily goes on. She knows her mother, and 
this speechless form of sulks, too well to be surprised. "You 
need not necessarily shorten your stay before the beginning 
of September ; no one can blame you for my acts. I am 
very sorry, mother, sorry that I have pained our kind host, 
sorry to have disappointed you ; but I could not have acted 
otherwise. I will leave on Thursday morning, and will in- 
form Mr. Charlton of my resolution to-day. He will not 
object to my going, he will see 4 hat it is inevitable." 

Still mute. If Mrs. Charlton were deaf and dumb she 
could not give less sign that she hears. Words are useless ; 
has she not tried again, and again, and yet again, threats, 
scoldings, denunciations, commands, entreaties, tears. She 
has run up and down the whole gamut — in vain. Of what 
use is it to waste eloquence on such a heartless, undutifui 
daughter as this ? 

" If you would but forgive me, mother," Eleanor say% 
wistfully, and at the words, as flint strikes fire from steel, tfct 
•pell is broken, and the infuriated woman blazes forth : 



MMUDDMCr ZJGMT. WOf 

•I will never forgive you I" see cries, "Lever, to help m 
Heaven I I will never forgive yoa in life or in death 1" 



In her bedroom, Vera stands before the glass potting die 
last touch to her dinner dress, and eyeing herself with ex- 
treme disapproval How thin and long her face is, to be 
sore, how unnecessarily like black saucers her eyes, how 
particularly unlike a rosebud her mouth, how excessively un- 
classical her nose, how idiotically low her forehead, how yel- 
low, and sallow, and ugly her complexion ! No, her /&*— 
Dot has a complexion, Vera a skin. What a black, kinky, 
untidy brush, her hair. Yes ! she is one of the tribe of Ugly 
Ducklings, and never, never, will she transmogrify into a 
swan. Ah I no ; sallow skin, thin cheeks, crane neck, tar 
black hair, owl eyes — that is to be the melancholy record to 
the bitter end I With a great sigh she turns away from the 
mirror. Hitherto her looks have troubled her very little ; 
she has accepted the fact that she is a colored person, and 
not a good-looking colored person either, as one of the great 
^controvertible facts of life, but of late this painful truth has 
been brought home to her, in an altogether new and depress- 
ing light If she were only the least little bit pretty I If she 
only had the least little flesh on her bones I Vera is sadly 
conscious that she has an abnormal tendency to bones. If 
she only had red cheeks, a Grecian nose, anything, anything. 
But she has not an atom of prettiness about her. She if 
tank, she is bony, she outgrows her clothes, she is dark and 
coloiless, she always will be, and — and what a homely Uttle 
mortal Captain Dick must think her. 

" I think I look like Daddy," muses Vera, gazing mournfully 
at what she sees in the glass. " I really think I have a 
family resemblance to Daddy. Perhaps tjiat is why Captain 
Dick takes pity on me, and makes much of me. He does 
tfte same with Daddy. Daddy s wrists and ankles vrotnide 



lOS SHADBBCK LIGHT. 

unpleasantly from his clothes — so do mine. Daddy sat I 
complexion like a tallow candle — so have I. Daddy runs 
frightfully to joints and knuckles — so do I. Yes, I am 
enough like Daddy to be a long-lost sister." 

She turns away disgusted, goes to the window, leans her 
folded arms on the sill, and gazes disconsolately out. And 
yet that Creole face, framed in green leaves, a dark-red ribbon 
in the " tar mop," would hardly be pronounced an ugly one 
by most observers. Those two velvet, black, soft, deep, 
lustrous eyes would redeem any countenance, and despite 
the sallowness, and the thinness of a rapidly growing girl, 
there are the serene lines of beauty of no common order. 
In spite of her own opinion, she is exactly the sort of Ugly 
Duckling that is certain to grow into a handsome swan. 

How hot it is 1 That is the only idea she has been con- 
scious of all day. It has been a blank day, blank from its 
very beginning. For some reason Captain Dick was not at 
the place of tryst, thit morning, and Vera and the Nixie were 
left at their moorings lamenting. The house has been dull 
as death, the people gloomy, the day hot. She always comes 
back to that ; her mind goes round in a circle, and always 
returns to its starting-point — the heat 

"Perhaps I am falling into my second childhood," thinks 
Vera, despondently; "I have heard of such things. If the 
weather makes dogs go mad, why shouldn't it make people 
idiotic ? And oh ! how hot and hateful the whole world will 
be after Thursday afternoon." 

She sighs impatiently, and stares with gloomy eyes over 
the prospect How lovely she thought it three weeks ago ; 
what a blank, hollow, unsatisfactory sort of a thing it is to- 
day ! What is the use of a place being lovely, if people will 
aot stay in it ? Why was Central America ever discovered ? 
It was some of Christopher Columbus' work, she supposes 
— these navigators and discoverers are certainly wery offi 
cious and much overrated people. Oh * dear k*w hot it is 



SMADDMCK ZJGMT. IO0 

and those black ckmds up there; of coarse it fc going to 
fi^iten and thunder, nothing will do it bat that 

Vent is mortally afraid of lightning and thunder, she ahrsws 
takes refuge in the cellar if there is one available, her eyes 
hermetically sealed, her ears corked with her index fingers. 
As if she were not unhappy enough without haying to spend 
the evening in a cellar 1 Oh 1 how hot — then she stops. The 
little basket phaeton, with its blue umbrella top, comes brisk 
ly up the drive, with Dora inside. Dora has been to town on 
an errand for Mr. Charlton, and is now returning. How 
pretty she looks, Vera thinks, in that white chip hat, and 
ostrich tips, and blush roses, a flimsy white vail strapped 
across her delicate morsel of a nose, her rose-lined parasol 
casting a warm tint over her too pale face. Ah ! where are 
Captain Dick's senses, that he has no relish for golden hair, 
pearly skin, azure eyes, and a fairy form. Then Dora looks 
up, and sees her. 

"Oh, Vera ! " she exclaims. There is unusual animation 
in Dora's look and tone, " have you heard? " 

" I have heard nothing," says Vera, in a melancholy voice, 
44 seen nothing, done nothing, and never expect to again. 
What is it ? " 

" Captain Ffrench " 

Vera starts up, all listlessncss, all mQd melancholy gone, 
at that magical name. 

* Captain Ffrench has met with an accident — I heard it 
ever at St Ann's, and is very badly hurt." 

There is a cry; a sharp, sudden cry, as if she had been 
struck. Then Veaa is motionless, but in that instant every 
trace of life and color has faded from her face. 

" He was out driving," pursues Dora, airily, " with that 
man, Dr. Englehart, you know, and it seems the horses took 
fright at a passing train, and started off at a gallop. The 
carriage was overturned, in spite of all Captain Ffrench'* 
dforts, and they were both thrown out Dr. KngUhart 



HO SMAV0&CZ UGBT. 

escaped scot-free, bat the poor overgrown Dick has broke* 
himself somewhere, his arm, or his shoulder, or his neck— 1 
really am not sure which." 

There is no reply. Vera kneels as she was, the same, yet 
different Rigid now, her hands locked, her face blanched, 
her eyes all blind and black with great swift horror. She 
does not try to speak, she just kneels there, and stares 
blankly down at the speaker. 

" Vera I Why, good Heaven I You little idiot 1 I be 
lieve you are going to faint ! " 

She darts into the house, up the stairs, flies swiftly into 
Vera's room, and seizing her by the shoulders, shakes net 
with no gentle hand. 

" You little fool 1 if you faint I will never forgive you. 1 
tell you he is not dead — more's the pity— such great hulking 
fellows as that, in everybody's way, don't die so easily. He 
has put his shoulder out, that is all. Now come back to life, 
or I will shake all there is left out of you I " 

She is quite white with anger and alarm. Vera lifts he? 
eyes, into which the old look slowly returns. 

* I thought he was killed," she says, in a whisper. 

" Oh 1 you thought, you thought 1 " retorts Dora, crossly, 
" a nice fright you have given me for nothing. My heart is 
beating like a trip-hammer. It serves me right for telling 
you anything about it I might have known what a perfect 
simpleton you are." 

" Oh I Dot, don't Where is he, please ? " 

" Where he ought to be— out of everybody's way, in his 
hut in the ocean." 

"Alone?" 

u He has that other lunatic with him— his frMgi, Daddj 
Long Legs." 

" Dot, teL me, is he badly hurt ? * 

14 How do I know? What do I aure? I only hope * 
won't prevent his going off on Thursday. Oh I you 009 



SmdDDMCX U€MT. Ill 

took at me as you please; I detest your Captain Dick. Now 
rm going to tell Mr. Charlton." 

She leaves the room* For a little Vera lingers! a weigh! 
like lead on her heart Captain Dick hurt, badly hurt, 
•offering pain, alone there in Shaddeck Light What if it 
it worse than Dora knows, what if he dies! At that 
thought she starts to her feet and puts oat both arms as if 
to ward off some direful blow. 

"Oh, no, not" she cries, "not that! Oh! what shall I 
do? What shall I do ?" 

She stands twisting her fingers, bewildered bj pain and 
terror. The heat, the coming thunder-storm, his departure, 
all are forgotten, swallowed up in this new dread disaster. 

What shall she do ? Go down when the bell rings and eat 
her dinner ? No, that is impossible. Alone there with only 
Daddy ! Oh, if he were but at home, if she could only do 
something— only tell him she was sorry. Captain Dick 
helpless and suffering. How strange a thought, how impos- 
sible to take it in. He so strong, so manly, so full of life 
and vigor; it seems as if pain, or weakness, or helplessness 
could never come near him. 

What shall she do ? She takes up her hat mechanically, 
and goes out of the house. The closeness of the air seems 
to stifle her ; the lurid sky is shutting down over the silent 
world, as the dungeon roof shut down upon the fated pris- 
oner in the " Iron Shroud." If she could but do something 
^-anything ! To think of his being there alone, with no one 
to do anything for him but that stupid Daddy. The thought 
gives her a pang of absolute physical pain. 

She is out on the high road, now. \11 the world has come 
to a stand-still, the leaves on the trees, the flowers at her 
feet, the birds in the branches, the sea afar off Is nature 
waiting breathlessly for Jhe first crash of the storm, or has it 
gone into mourning, like Vent's heart? Dark clouds u% 
'•ptdly gathering, but she never heeds them she who m 



II* SWADBMCT L/0 



fears stormi — die goes on and on, Cuter, unheeJbg Ow 
heat, driven by "some spirit in her feet,* without will of hef 
own, and here at last, breathless, flushed, panting, she stands 
on the shore, and looks across the mile or so of water, at 
Shaddeck Light 

The tide is ebbing. In half an hour— in less— it will be 
possible to walk over, but Dr. Englehart is there, and eves 
in her great trouble, she is shy of facing a strange man. It 
is a comfort, a poor one, but a comfort, to stand here with 
longing wistful eyes fixed on that smallest of human habita- 
tions. Overhead the clouds are still blackening, the sea 
moans dully, now and then, as if sullenly conscious of what 
is in store for it. And still Vera stands. She will be 
drenched to the skin, she will be blinded by the lightning 
she will be deafened by the thunder, she will be frightened 
out of her few remaining senses, if she lingers half an hour 
longer. And yet it is hard to turn and go. Her anxiety, 
her sympathy are so great that in some mesmeric way they 
ought to reach him from here. Ah ! here is Daddy I long* 
limbed, blessed Daddy I At last she will hear of our hero. 

Daddy comes shambling over the rocks, looking much at 
usual. He is attached to his master, with a dull, doggish 
sort of attachment, but he is also of a phlegmatic turn, and 
this upsetting of all things works no apparent outward 
change. If Vent's eyes were twice as piercing, they could 
read nothing in that blank page — his face. 

44 How is he?" she cries, springing forward. "Oh, 
Daddy, how is Captain Ffrench ? " 

Daddy eyes her stolidly, and does not quicken his custom- 
ary drawl. 

" Waal, I guess thar ain't no change to speak on. He's 
kinder pooty much the same. Air you a goin' over? Dew; 
'twill perk him up quite tome." 

" Daddy," Vera demands with solemnity, " Dadly, Z as* 
you — will he, or will he not die ? " 



1U 

Thai pat upon oath, ai it were, Daddy eoasideis witL 
profound seriousness. 

" Waal, I reckon not," is hii conclusion. " Fm a £■&' 
far some doctor's stuff over to the town, and kent stay." 

u Is Dr. Englehart with him, Daddy ? " 

Daddy shakes his head, and shuffles 0$ and again Vera is 
alone. Shall she go ? He is there and suffering ; she can 
return before the tide rises. Yes, she will go. She knows 
her way over those slippery, sea-weedy rocks, she has crossed 
the bar many a time, but never so quickly, so fleetly as now. 
In a few minutes she is in front of the cottage, the handle of 
the door in her hand. She turns it gently, and enters. The 
darkness of the nearing storm is in the room ; its bareness, 
its loneliness strikes the girl with a sense of pain altogether 
new. What a desperate place to be ill in — ill and alone. 

Captain Ffrench is asleep. He lies on the lounge, hi* 
head pillowed on his right arm, his left bandaged and help- 
less. It is his arm then that is broken. How pale he is ; 
how deeply he sleeps. Vera shuts the door, tiptoes over 
anxiously and stands gazing at him. He does not look as 
though he were going to die, certainly — nobody dies of a 
broken arm, or a shoulder put out. And it may detain him ; 
a person cannot go to Central America winged in this way. 
A great throb of hope stirs within her ; if the accident keeps 
him will it not be a thing to rejoice at after all I 

Her steady gaze disturbs him ; he stirs impatiently, and 
mutters to himself! Vera leans down, smiling, to hear what 
he is saying. As she does so, he opens his eyes, stares, 
shuts them, reopens them, and stares again. 

" 6y Jove I " he says, in amaze. 

"Yes, it is me," says Vera, joyously, discarding grammai 
in her gladness, " I have just come. Oh 1 Captain Dick, 
how glad I am, how glad I am I " 

" Glad 1 " exclaims Captain Dick, aghast 

u Yes, glad that it is only your arm T thought it was m 



ii4 amuu&€r umar. 

orach worse. Ton don't know how frightened I 

Vera stops with one impassionate little gesture. Mam 

words will tell so little of all that is in the heart 

" You dear little soul 1 " says Captain Dicky sitting np and 
holding out his hand. "And yon came here the moment 
you heard of it, 111 be bound." 

"Yes," replied Vera, "I did not know — Dot did not know 
—Daddy did not seem to know what it was. And it seemed 
so dreadful for you to be alone and in pain here. Is it your 
arm, or your shoulder, and oh, does it hurt you wry 
much ? " 

He does not answer for a moment He smiles, and holds 
her hands, and sits looking at her with a look Vera does not 
understand. 

"You were frightened and sorry, and you ran here at once, 
little Vent ! Little Vera I what a trump you are I " 

" And it is not very, very bad ! " persists Vera, sticking to 
business, and ignoring compliments. 

" Not now ; it hurt like the deuce at first, although the 
shoulder is only strained, not dislocated Those horses 
pulled like a pair of devils. But it is all right now, or will 
be in a day or two, and it would be worth while having a 
whole arm amputated for such a proof of fidelity as this. 
Find a chair and sit down. Who told you about it in the 
first place ? " 

" Dot. She was in town, and heard there." 

"Does the governor know?" 

" Dot will tell him.' 9 

" How did you come ? Bui you walked, of course." 

" Of course. The tide is out, and I must not stay or it 
wfll be in." 

" Oh, there is no hurry ; it won't be in for hours. I was 
confoundedly lonely until I fell asleep. Englehart has gone 
back to New York ; had to go— unexpected telegram— ea 
yrar visit, a god-send at acy time, is doubly a god-send at 



am mrjun$fG at shaddeck ugmt. ii$ 

present Take off jour hat— yes, I insist— Daddy wLI be 
back, presently, and we will hare a sociable sapper together, 
The tide ? Never mini the tide ; I will send him for the 
Nixie, and he can row you ashore." 

Vera laughs and obeys. She takes a chair, throws her hat 
on another, and the simple action is the torning-point of act 
life* 




AM STKHTlf O AT SHADDBCX UOHT. 

JUT why did yoa come here? " inquires Vera, u such 
a lonesome, lonesome place to be sick in, Captain 
Diet" 

" /am not sick," returns Captain Dick, * and don't intend 
to be, little Vera." 

" Why did you not go to Charlton ?" persists Vera, "it is 
dreadfully out of the way here, with nobody but Daddy too, 
while over there we are so many, with nothing at all to do. 
We could read to you, and sing to you, and nake you nice 
things " 

" Don't," says Captain Ffrench, " don't Vera, I beg, 1 
'am but mortal ; don't madden me by recalling all I hare 
lost Don't make me feel any more like the peri outside o< 
Paradise than you can help. You are coming to see me 
every day while I am here ; yes, and you will read to me : and 
talk to me, and sing for me, and for the rest — well, I most 
bear it You know, I cannot go back tc Charlton/' 

"Why not?" 

"Ah 1 well, never mind why," answers Dick with a very 
sincere sigh ; " I and the dear old governor have had a nds> 



I W6 AM EVENING AT SMADDECX UCJTT. 

onderstanding, and — and, in short, I am not to go back. SUB 
I think I shall venture once, to bid you all good-by." 

" You will really go then, in gpite of all this ?" touching 
the wounded arm, her heart sinking suddenly. 

" In spite of all this. It would take a good deal mora 
than a crippled arm to keep me from Honduras. I shall 
have time and to spare, to recover, on the way. I shall lie 
on the deck, Vera, and smoke, and think of you, and wonder 
what you are about in the sunny September days." 

" Ah ! " says Vera, " I can tell you what I will be about, 
very easily. I shall be back in New York, in the dull old 
schoolroom, teaching piano scales, and words of two syila 
bles all day long. Mrs. Trafton — ' my missis,' you know- 
brings Floss and Lex home early in the month, and, of court* 
I must be there." 

She pushes all the soft dark rings of hair from her forehead, 
with a restless sigh. How hopeless it all looks, that dreary 
school-room, up three pair, after the brightness and freedom 
of Charlton and Captain Dick. How monotonous the rou- 
tine of Second Readers, and " one, two, three, four," after 
the sails, the drives, the woodland walks ; how deadly dull 
the tii9some gabble of the children, after the brilliant conver- 
sational powers of 

" Oh ! " she cries out, in a voice full of impatient pain, 
" how horrid it all is ; the city, and the noise, and the ugli- 
ness, and the dreary old round of lessons over and over, for- 
ever and ever." 

He looks at her in pity. She is such a child ; it is like 
caging a poor little forlorn starling, this cooping her up with 
school-books and black-boarcU. 

" What a shame I " he says, " I wish I could take yon 
with me to Central America. You would like that, would 
you not, Vera? " Like it? Her eyes flash with quick de* 
light She laughs, then sighs. "And Floss and Lex," ha 
goes on, " who arc they 1 My lady's pair of pet poodles 9" 



AN EVENING AT SBADDECT UGBT. 1 1/ 

" Poodles I " indignantly ; " they are Alexis and FlosriQa 
Trafton, nine and eight years old, and two of the nicest little 
things. I suppose it is wicked of me to be discontented ; 
Mrs. Trafton is ever so good to me, and the children love 
me ; but I do not like teaching; I ought to be at school 
myself, I know nothing at all. You see it all happened 
when I was so young — only ten, Captain Dick," lifting two 
pathetic young eyes. 

" Yes, dear,* he says, tenderly, " tell me about it You 
lost your father* I know." 

" I was twelve when papa died. He was killed in the 
second year of the war. Dot was over twenty then — she is 
only my half-sister, you know." 

" By the by,* says the captain, struck by a sudden thought, 
" what is your name, Vera ? Not Lightwood, I know. Curb 
ous, that in all this time I have never heard your name." 

"My father was a Cuban," Vera answers, "his name was 
Martinez — Manual Salvadoi Martinez. I was christened 
after his mother, Veronica Mary." 

u Veronica Mary. Then I have the honor of addressing 
die Dofia V&onique Maria Martinez ? * 

Vera nods. 

" I am Vera to everybody, and all who know Dot call ma 
Vera Lightwood. My grandmother Martinez lives in Cuba 
yet, and they say is very rich. She was angry with papa 
for marrying mamma, and never would speak to him, or 
write to him after. When he died, she wrote for the first 
time — such a cold, proud letter — offering to take me. 
Mamma had lost her fortune then, it was invested in South 
era bonds, or something, and our house was burned in Sher- 
man's march. Ah ! it was a dreadful, dreadful time. I was 
a child, but I remember it all so well. It killed poor 
mamma. And to think that you were one of those Yarkee 
soldiers \ used to fear and hate so much I * 

11 1 was not in Sherman's army, and so never helped to 



1 18 AN EVENING AT SBADDECK UQMT. 

burn your home, thank Heaven ! Yes, it was a stirring, gl» 
rious , terrible time. And so your mother would not let yow 
go to Grandmamma Martinez and the Ever-Faithful Isle 1 * 

" No, but I think if she had known she was to die so tooa, 
she would. We were left so poor, so desolate, so uttetly 
alone." 

" She died suddenly ? " 

"In one moment, Captain Dick. When they told her 
papa was wounded, she went to him, and stayed until he 
died. He died in a week — torn all to pieces, 9 ' Vera says, 
in a whisper, her dark eyes dilating, " by a shell. Then she 
came home. We did not see much difference, she was al- 
ways pale and delicate, like Dot, but she never laughed nor 
talked as she used, or took any notice of me, who used to 
be her pet ; and one day as she was talking to Miss Scudder, 
she just laid her hand on her heart, gave one gasp, and fell 
back in her chair, dead 1 " 

There is silence. Outside the darkness is ever deepen- 
ing, around them the sea is sullenly washing, fit background 
far Vent's tragic tale. 

" It was heart-disease," she goes on, after a moment, dur- 
ing which she has covered her face, with a sob, " and (Dot 
would not like me to tell this) she will not talk of it, not 
think of it, but she has it too. It is hereditary in our 
mother's family, and some day I am afraid " 

She stops ; her large eyes look larger and blacker, Ffrench 
thinks, than he has ever thought them before. 

" I would die, I think, if anything happened to Dot I 
have nobody but her in the world Captain Dick, you know 
so much, do you think — do you think Dot will ever go like? 
that?" 

" I think not, I hope not, I am sure not," he answers, ' my 
poor little Vera I " 

He is so sorry for her, she is such a childish little soul to 
be thrown on the world, to fight its bitter battles, to know of 



an etmnin* at soajxomcjt uvmt. ii» 

such grisly horrors as these. He has never had a sister, 
never thought whether he wished for one before; bat ha 
wishes now that this little girl with the dark appealing eyes* 
and winsome, innocent ways, were his sister. 

" Then,* goes on Vera, " we were all alone, and homeless, 
and poor. Only for Miss Scudder, an old maid cousin of 
mamma's, who kept our house, I don't know what would have 
become of us. But the next two years passed somehow. 
The war was at an end, we were still without a home, and 
poor, poor, poor I " 

She breaks off. A great flash of lightning blazes out, fol 
lowed by a dull roaring cannonade. The storm is upon them 
in its might She shrieks, and covers her eyes. 

" Don't be afraid," Dick says, reassuringly, " what I such 
a little heroine frightened by a thunder-storm ? Come, sit 
with your back to the window, and go on* You do not know 
how interested I am." 

The crash is over ; it is so dark they can hardly see each 
other's faces. Captain Ffrench takes her two hands in one of 
his, and holds them fast 

" Now," he says, cheerily, " not all the powers of earth 
and air, not all the king's horses, nor all the king's men, 
shall harm you. What next ? What did you and Dot do 
then?" 

"Before the war," says Vera, creeping up close to her 
protector, " we had had a governess. When it first broke 
out papa sent her home North, but she had left us her 
address, and Dot wrote to her, asking her to help us. She 
wrote back at once, the kindest letter. She had married, 
during those four years, a very rich banker, a Mr. Trafton, 
and she invited us to her house, and inclosed money to pay 
our way. Now was that not kind ? " 

" Very kind. The world is not such a bad sort of place 
after all as the cynics try to make it out Now, now, now I 
nftvei mind the lightning." 



AM MTMMM€ AT MMADDBCK MJ9MT. 

"But it is so awfuL Captain Dick, what woa\d we do I 
H struck this house and set it on fire ? " 

"It wont strike," he laughs, "I am a non-conductor. 
Well, you went to Mrs, Trafton's ? " 

" We went to Mrs. Trafton's, and nobody could have been 
kinder. Mr. Trafton had been a widower, and Lex and 
Flossy were two little tots no bigger than that, but they took 
the greatest fancy to me at once — you can't think 1 " 

" Can't I ? It has been exactly my own case. I stood on 
the bank, that morning, and looked down on the dearest 
little black-eyed fairy in the world, and fell in love with her 
on the spot" 

" Now you are laughing at me. If you are " 

" I am perfectly serious. My case and that of Lex and 
Flossy are precisely parallel." 

" Well, whether you are laughing or not they did % and 
Mrs. Trafton proposed that I should stay partly as playmate* 
partly as governess, at a small salary. Such a ridiculous 
governess, Captain Dick, only fourteen 1 " 

" And there you are ever since ? " 

" Ever since, and likely to be, until the children are old 
enough for a governess who knows something. I know 
nothing, nothing," says Vera, with a melancholy little shake 
of the head. 

" What becomes of Dofia Martinez, then ? " 

" Ah, what ? goodness knows. I have a talent for cook- 
ing ; I might go out as kitchen-maid. I suppose Mrs. Traf- 
ton will get something for me ; she is awfully good. But I 
do hate teaching." 

" You poor little soul 1 " Captain Ffrench is aware that 
he has several times already used this form of consolation, 
and that it would be well to vary It, but it seems to fit the 
case &s well as anything else. 

44 And Dot hates millinery ; I mean she hates being a lay 
figure, and trying on, aivi showing things to vulgar rich peo 



AM EVENING AT SMADDECZ L/GJTT. 12* 

pie, who would be insolent if they could, only Dot Revet 
takes airs nor insolence from anybody. But it is a stupid 
life all round, and in the long hot summer time, and the dull 

winter days But there I what is the use of talking 

about it Poor we are, and poor we will be till the cad of 
the chapter. Sometimes I wish Mr. Charlton had not in- 
vited us here. It makes the going back sc much worse." 

" I wish Mr. Charlton would keep you for good. It would 
be a capital arrangement on both sides. If things were as 
they used to be between us, I would ask him. Ah I by 
Jove I that was a crash 1 " 

A crash indeed. It shakes the light-house, the rocks un« 
der it, the mighty ocean itself. And then a blaze of blue 
sulphurous light zig-zags through the room, and Vera screams 
and buries her face on his shoulder. He draws her close, 
and does his best to soothe her, but he can feel her quiver- 
ing with fear. 

14 It will not hurt you, you are perfectly safe. Vera I 
why you poor child, how your heart is beating. How sorry 
I am you came." 

That rouses her a little. 

" I — I am not sorry," she gasps, " it would be just as bad 
over at the house. Oh, Captain Dick, I am always fright- 
ened to death in thunder-storms. Do you — do you think it 
will soon be over ? " 

" It will be over in fifteen minutes," returns Captain Dick, 
in the positive tone of one who always has his inform** 
tion from headquarters, " and, meantime, neither the thun- 
der; nor the lightning, nor twice the hurly-burly will harm 
us. Hark 1 there is the rain. It is only a summer shower 
after alL Our cyclone will be over in a moment now." 

And in a very few minutes it is over. There is a torrent 

of rain, a few more vivid flashes, a few more rumbling peals, 

and then the spirit of the storm draws off his forces, growling 

sullenly as he goes. There is but the furious pour of th# 

* 



IS* AM EVENING AT SSADDECT LIGMT. 

rain, and as Vent does not fear that, she lifts her diminished 
heady and, rather ashamed of herself, looks in a somewhat 
crest-fallen fashion at her companion. 

" What a goose yon mnst think me, Captain Dick. Bat 
I can't help it I have always been like this. I wonAtr,* 
suddenly, " what keeps Daddy ? " 

" The storm, I suppose. He doesn't like a wetting an) 
more than his betters." 

" And the tide is turning I " cries the girl going to the 
window, " it must be nine o'clock. Captain Dick, the tidt 
is turning." 

" Let it turn. What is the tide to you and me ? " 

" But how am I to get off? how am I to go home ? * 

" Daddy will fetch you. He will come off in a boat pres- 
ently, and then, after supper, can row you ashore. Come, 
don't grow anxious, it will be all right" 

"Well — if you think so— you are sure Daddy wQl 
come ? " 

"Quite certain." 

" Because if he did not you know I could walk it The 
bar is still clear " 

" And the run is still pouring in bucketmls. Yes, it is 
so likely I will let you walk. I'll tell you what you may dot 
little Vera : does my memory serve me, or did I dream yon 
owned to a genius for cooking ? " 

" I own to it It is my one talent" 

" And you are not afraid of blacking your hands ? " 

11 Not a bit. Nature has made them so black that art not 
soot cannot spoil them." 

" Very well then. Yonder is the kitchen. In the kitch- 
en is a stove, in the stove is a fire, left by forehanded 
Daddy. On sundry she! res are various articles of tin and 
crockery appertaining to the cuisine. In different canisters 
are coffee, tea, milk, etc Now, suppose, while we wait, 
you get up our supper. I am consumedly hungry. And if 



a Mimmr at Mmuiwmcr ummr. iaj 

yon prove to hare the culinary skill you claim, when I re- 
turn from Central America, with my fortune made, I may en- 
gage you as my cook." 

Vera needs no second bidding. She goes to the kitchen 
in high glee. The invalid proposes accompanying her, and 
superintending, but this she will not hear of. A true artist 
permits no interference — an artist in cooking least of all. 
He is to remain on his lounge and smoke, if he likes, and 
issue no orders, and prepare to be enchanted with the re- 
sult 

The lightning has quite ceased ; the rain is ceasing. 
Great rifts in the clouds show gleams of yellow light It is 
nine, but still not entirely dark, and by and by there will be 
a moon. Daddy can row her ashore by moonlight, and in 
spite of the storm this will be an evening to dream ai, whes 
Captain Dick — ah 1 mournful thought — is far away. 




CHAPTER XIIL 

A MIGHT AT SHADDXCK LIOHT. 

|HE Dofia Veronique Maria Martinez bustles about 
among the crockery and canisters mentioned by the 
master of the house, making coffee, frying ham, 
cutting bread and making toast Captain Richard Ffrench 
lies at ease, half smiling as he watches the busy little figure 
flitting about And the August evening wears, and the 
August night comes trailing darkly, spangled with stars, over 
die world A cool wind rises, the sea washes up, in steady 
deep pulses, the minutes fly, and Daddy comes not He 
pulls out his watch at last " Nine,' 9 he says, with a start 



1*4 d MI€BT AT MBHIWmcr UQMT. 

" Daddy should be here. What can keep the fool ? What a 
pretty pickle if the Dofia should have to stay all night — if 
Daddy does not come at all." 

Bat this catastrophe he does not greatly fear. Daddy 
always comes ; he is badgered by the gamins of St Ant's 
whenever he shows in the streets ; he will not foil in this 
crisis. The druggist and the tempest combined have detained 
him. And then Vera appears in the door-way freighted with 
a large tray, the odors from which are as nectar and ambro 
sia, and twice as substantial This she places on a table, 
wheels it up to the invalid's couch, fights a lamp, and sets it 
in the middle. She arranges her edibles, and takes her seat 
to preside, issuing her orders with the pretty peremptoriness 
of an amateur matron. 

" No, you are not to stir, Captain Dick. I can do every 
thing myself and prefer it Just keep still, and do as yon 
are told* Here is your coffee— does it not smell deli- 
riously ? " 

" The perfume of Araby the Blest — and the taste — words 
fiuL Consider yourself engaged from this moment as head- 
cook of my future establishment " 

" Let me help you to ham, and try this toast Is youi 
coffee sweet enough ? How funny it seems, this gipsy supper 
out here in the middle of the sea, doesn't it ? " 

" Ah I very funny I " Then mentally : " What the dickens 
keeps Daddy ? * 

" If Dot only could see us — or Mrs. Charlton. Good gra- 
cious! Mrs. Charlton would be shocked out of her seven 
senses." 

" Why? We are doing no harm." 

" That makes no difference. It isn't the things that art 
most harm that shock people most," says Vera, with uncon- 
scious knowledge of the world. " Another nip of coffee ? I 
knew you would like it" 

"Never tasted its like at the Cafe le Paris." HalApast 



A MfSJBTT AT ffttftflirf Z/MFT. M| 

■fate—he pulls out his watch surreptitiously. " Good ho* 
ens I will that half-witted clown never come 1 " 

"By the way/' he says, "and apropos of nothing— Dot 
knows where you are, of course ?" 

" Yes — no — I don't believe she does. I didn't tell her* 
I didn't know I was coming. She told me about your acci- 
dent, and I forgot everything but that, and ran oft Have 
another piece of toast ? Is not Daddy very long about com- 
ing?" 

" 1 should think so, ' replies Captain Dick, with an ill-re- 
pressed groan. He is growing seriously uneasy. More than 
once it has happened to Daddy to be belated and kept in St. 
Ann's all night—what if this be one of the nights 1 The tide 
.s making too rapidly now for her to think of crossing to the 
•nain land, and if Daddy does not bring a boat 

"Any more ham? No? Well, this is a promiscuous 
picnic; I shall never forget it Now, I will clean off the 
things, and then there will be nothing to do but sit down and 
wait for Daddy and the boat" 

"Nothing to do! Good Heavens I" Captain Ffrench 
says to himself again, in direst dismay. 

It is close upon ten now, and still only the wash of the smrf 
on the rocks breaks the dread silence of night and ocean. 
The rising moon streams in and fills the little room, for his 
cook-elect has taken the lamp to the kitchen. He goes to 
the window and looks out. 

" Sister Anne, Sister Anne, do you see anybody coming ? ' 
cries Vera, gayly. Her work is done, and waiting is begun. 
" Water, water, everywhere, but no Daddy visible. Captain 
Dick, what if he doesn't come at all ? " 

" By Jove 1 " he says, and looks at her so blankly that she 

9 

breaks into a laugh. 

" Would it not be awful ? And Mrs. Charlton's face when 
I go back 1 No— it is too fearful to think of 1 " She laughs 
•gain — Vent's sweet, joyous laugh, no thought of the real 



m6 a mmmr at smadomcx ummr m 



awkwardness, the serums contretemps, breaking on her mind 
" Captain Dick, you should have let me walk home." 

" But I thought Daddj would come — I made sure Daddy 
would come 1 " he murmurs, helplessly. He goes back to 
his couch, and pulls his long mustache in dire perplexity. 
"Confound Daddy 1 — yea, trebly hang and confound him I 
What can keep the great softy? If the child has to stay 

all night " He looks at her sitting there with all a child* I 

unconsciousness in her face. "It will be the deuce of a 
scrape 1 And what will they say at Charlton ? What wiL 
Eleanor say ? — and her awful mother ?— -and the governor? 
and Dora ? " 

Vera is singing softly to herself, The stars are shining 
down on the sleeping sea ; the moon is pouring its white, 
lonesome light over everything; nothing but the world at 
waters around them — Adam and Eve in Eden were never 
more alone. 

•• Tht night has a thmnaad eye*," 

sings Vera, her head thrown back, her upraised eyes fixed osi 
the glittering sky — 

"The day bat on* 
Yet the light of the bright wecid diss 
With the dying 



" The mind hai * thouwd 

The heart but one ; 
Yet the light of * whole life diet 

When day is done." 

Half-past ten t With the moonlight full on her face, she 
sits in the old arm-chair, the sea-wind lifting her short curls, 
drinking in the solemn loveliness of the night There is si 
lence. He lies gnawing his mustache, vexed, puzzled, pow 
asiess to help himself. How anxious they will be at Chaii 



A MIGMT AT SBADDRCT UGMT. IJf 

How unconcerned she seems ; tinging, too, by George 
He is half inclined to resent that ignorance of innocence. 
Bat, after all, what cannot be cored most be endured— care 
killed a cat— it is really no fault of his ; she is only a little 
girl, and— eleven I 

The night is so still; what wind there is, is blowing 
towards them, and the clock of St Ann's Town Hall has a 
load bass voice. Eleven I Still silence. Vera's song has 
died oat, Captain Ffrench has given np the forlorn hope at 
last. 

" ' He cometh not,' she said," qnotes Vera, in tones of 
subdued tragedy. 

"I — I'm afraid not I'm awfully sorry, little Vera. 
What must yon think of me ? It is all my fault — you could 
have walked. I never imagined it would end like this." 

The intense vexation of his tone is not to be concealed. 
She looks at him in surprise. Of what he is thinking— of 
the way the predicament may affect her — she never dreams. 

" But, after all, there is no great harm done. I am safe, 
and it is better for me to be here than that you should be 
left alone. Dot will guess where I am, and the rest will not 
care. I suppose the tide will go out again early in the morn- 
ing, and then I can walk ashore." 

There is no more to be said. He accepts the situation 
as it is his custom to accept the inevitable, and throws off all 
care for the morrow. To-night his duty is to make his 
guest as comfortable as may be, to-morrow must take care 
of itself. Her sister will understand, and as Vera herself 
says, it is no one ehe's business. No one need ever know 
— she can cross about seven in the morning, and be home in 
time for breakfast So Captain Dick cheers up, throws ofl 
worry, and becomes hospitably solicitous about her night's 



u You cannot sit there until morning, you knjw,"hc says. 
Daddy has a roost under the eaves. I will mount, and 



1*6 A NIGHT AT SMADDMCT ZJGMT. 

you must try and make yourself as comfortabU as may be 
down here. You need fear no burglars, and sea-pirates 
don't fish in Shaddeck Bay. After all, it will not be half a 
bad adventure to look back on, in the monotony of the 
Trafton school-room. Don't get nervous; don't let the 
sound of the sea frighten you. Remember there will be a 
sweet little cherub up aloft ready to fly down at the faintest 
call. And now, as it is high time you were sound, I will as- 
cend. Good-night and pleasant dreams, little Vera." 

Vera protests — he will hurt his shoulder. She is very 
comfortable, thank you, in this chair. She will go up under 
the Mansard instead. In vain — on this point he is inflexi- 
ble, and goes while she is politely persisting. No need of 
shooting bolts or burglars, of locking doors, or barring case- 
ments at Shaddeck Light He is gone, and Vera and the 
moonlight are alone. 

Alone 1 How lonely it is — she has never realised folly 
what the word meant before. How awe-inspiring in its sol- 
emn, sighing mystery, that sleeping sea, how desolate the 
eternal wash of the slow breaking surf, how mournful the 
echo of the night wind ! Now and then there is the disso- 
nant scream of a gull — nothing else of life to break upon the 
voices of the night. Moonlight and water, water and moon* 
light — their dot of an island, their speck of a house 1 St. 
Ann's, a long, dark line of coast, with here and there a glim- 
mering light, and she alone in all the world, as it seems, 
alone as Peter Wilkins on his desert island, before the ad- 
vent of his wonderful flying wife. But there is that " sweet 
little cherub " up aloft — the thought of him brings comfort 
and companionship. How very awful to be here quite 
alone, no Captain Dick upstairs. She can hear him mov- 
ing about, and there is protection and cheeriness in every 
creak of his boots. She feels no inclination for sleep, she is 
abnormally wide-awake — that mighty sweep of sea ar*d sky, 
that golden, crystal globe up there, all these yellow clusters 



A XtQBT AT SBADDECX UQBT. 1*9 

of flan, absorb her. It is such a night as she will nerer 
spend again, a night to be marked by a red stone in her life. 
She hopes Dot is not uneasj, bat Dot will gness how it is 
So she sits, and softly sings to herself and the low, crooning 
lullaby steals up to the man overhead, and touches all that 
is chivalrous and tender in his heart. 

" Dear little soul I " he thinks, " dear little, innocent, 
warm-hearted Vera 1 How much younger she is than most 
girls of her age — how true and clear she sings I What a 
noble, loving, generous woman .she will make in five or six 
years. And how little is the fear of Mrs. Grundy before her 
eyes 1 What will Eleanor— what will Mrs. Charlton think 
and say of this escapade ? " 

Miss Charlton's refusal has not altogether, it will be per- 
ceived, broken the heart of Captain Ffrench. He feels 
considerably better, indeed, than before the ordeal — it is not 
certainty, but suspense that kills — Eleanor, conjugal bliss — 
Charlton vs. Englehart and the rest of these bon camarades — 
new discoveries, botanical and mineral, in Honduras — the 
die is cast between — it is to be the latter, and in his secret 
heart he rejoices. 

Twelve by the clock of St Ann's. Vera is still by the 
window, but her croon has ceased, she is growing sleepy, 
and a trifle chilly. After all, a person might as well have a 
sleep — moonlight and sea effects will keep. So, yawning 
very much, she takes her place on the lounge! and in five 
minutes is fast as a church. 

Morning 1 She opens her eyes, as the first eastern beam 
shoots pink and golden into the little room. The window 
stands wide open and by it, smoking placidly, sits Captain 
Dick. 

" Is it to-morrow ? " she asks, rising on her elbow, " it 
does not seem half an hour since I lay down. Has Daddy 
come?" 

"Good-morning, Dona Martinez. No, Daddy is stffl 



1JC A mOHT AT SBADDACK UGMT. 

among the missing. How late did yon sit up last night t 
Far into my beauty sleep, I heard a still small voice chant 
ing, ' We won't go home tin morning/ " 

"You heard nothing of the sort How is the tide? en the 
ebb or flow ? Can I walk ashore ? " 

" Here is some one 1 " cries Captain Ffrench. On the 
instant a boat sweeps round the curve of the island and runs 
sharply up on the sand. 

" Daddy at last/' says Vera, with a yawn. " I shall not 
have to walk after all" 

" That is not Daddy's step/ 9 Daddy's master says, quickly. 
M There is more than one." 

The footsteps draw nearer, the door opens, and four per- 
sons enter the room. Dora Lightwood, pale and breathless, 
Mrs. Charlton, austere and grim, Mr. Charlton, hobbling 
with a stick, a dark frown on his furrowed face, and the 
txfflfmflp ]ast of alL 

"Vera I" Dora cries, and rushes forward, and falls on 
her sister's neck, and lifts up her voice and weeps. 

The rest stand still — a dread trio. Captain Dick rises 
and removes his pipe, a crushing sense of iniquity upon him 
as he meets Mrs. Charlton's gorgon gaze. Then there is 
silence. And until the last day of his life that scene is before 
Dick Ffrench — his little den all jubilant with the morning 
sunshine. Dora's suppressed sobbing, Mrs. Charlton's stony 
\lare, and the dark frown in his step-father's face. It never 
Mes. But most of all, he sees little Vera, instinctively 
withdrawing from her sister, and with a brave, bright, loyal 
smile, taking her stand by his side. The image of Vera u 
saw sxood there will be with him his wfaele life-long. 



4 MORNING AT SBA3DRCK UQMT. IJI 




CHAPTER XIV. 

A U OKXIlf O AT SHADDBGK LIOHT. 

ERA is the first to speak. 

" It is not Captain Dick's fault," she exclaims, 
eagerly. " Dora — and all of yon 1 it is not Cap- 
tain Ffrench's fault It is Daddy's. He never came from 
St Ann's all last night, and so I had to stay/' 

A sort of smothered groan breaks from Mrs. Charlton. It 
says plainer than words, "Worse and worse 1 Not eren 
Daddy to act as chaperon." 

•'And it stormed so, I was frightened nearly to death, and 
then when that was over the tide rose, and I couldn't walk 
—or swim. And there was no boat And Captain Dick 
had his shoulder hurt, and couldn't manage one if there was. 
And I tell you Daddy never came. Dot, why don't you say 
something ? " cries Vera, stamping her foot, all breathless 
and flushed in her defence. "What do you stand looking 
like that for? I didn't think you would be uneasy. I 
thought you were sure to know. What is the matter with 
you all? It was nobody's fault — nobody could help my 
staying here last night" 

No one speaks. The silence is beyond all telling, tremen- 
dous. Richard Ffrench has ridden down on the bayonets 
of the enemy to red death many a time, has faced starvation 
more than once last year on the pale frozen deep, has stood 
face to face with mortal peril many a time and oft, but never 
never — has he felt such blank consternation as posses* 
him now I Conscience makes cowards of us all. . He 
has been held a brave soldier, a reckless boatman, a fearlesc 
explorer, a daring hunter, but at this moment he is horribly 



13* A MORNING AT SHADDECK LIGHT. 

afraid of Mrs. Charlton. And Mr*. Charlton's ' gBtfesaf 
eye " is upon him, and holds him as that other dread optic 
held the trembling wedding guest 

Vera comes a little nearer, draws quite away from Dora, and 
stands close by his side, her dark face flushing angrily* 

u Captain Dick is not to blame," she repeats proudly j 
"he never sent for me, he never wanted me to come. But 
\ am glad I came — yes glad 1 " says Vera, flinging back het 
head defiantly, " for if I had not he would have been alone 
here with his disabled arm. None of you cared 1 Not thai 
he wanted anything, but if he had it would have been all the 
same. Daddy went to the druggist's, and never came back* 
And now, if you are ready," says Vera picking up her hat, 
and flashing defiance on the company, " / am. Good-by, 
Captain Dick." 

" Not good-by just yet Vera, only good-morning/' he 
answered, and with a smile takes the hand she offers in his 
strong clasp. His eyes praise and thank her, but his lips 
only smile. She knows nothing, except that they are all 
angry with her for staying from home last night, and want to 
throw the blame on him. She turns to the door, no one 
tries to stop her, on the contrary, Dora desires the greedily 
listening boatman to go as well. 

" Take her to the boat," she says, " and wait till we 
come." 

They depart and the house door closes behind them. 
Then Dora rises in her outraged sisterhood, and faces the 
enemy. To the frivolous mind it looks like a little bam* 
yard bantam ruffling its white feathers, and challenging to 
mortal combat a big Newfoundland. But there are no frivo- 
lous minds present, and Captain Dick feeis his hour has 
come I She is pale, and her cold blue eyes have a strange 
dry glitter, that really looks as m tdi like triumph as anger. 

" And now, Captain Ffrench," ihe begins, " what hav* 
feu to say?" 



A MORNING AT SBADDECK -IGMT. I J} 

"Nothing whatever," retorts that culprit, promptly. 
"Vera has told 70a all about it, I am very sorry if her 
absence caused you anxjety last night ; bat I presume the 
storm extended as far as Charlton. As she says, it could 
not be helped." 

* You have no more to say than this ? " 

" Not that I know of. I am very sorry. I am not aware 
that there is anything more to be said." 

Miss Lightwood turns from him to the others, as if saying : 
" You hear I He adds to the atrocity of his conduct cold- 
blooded indifference. And I am a poor little unprotected 
creature, unable to help myself." 

" You must be aware, sir," says Mr. Charlton, coming to 
the rescue, his voice harsh with irritating pain, " that this is 
an abominable affair — that people will talk — that — that it's 
an outrageous affair — that I wouldn't have had it happen for 
a thousand pounds — that — that there will be a devil of a 
scandal — that — that, in short, sir, you ought to be ashamed 
of yourself!" 

He strikes his stick angrily on the ground, feeling that 
there is more stumbling in his eloquence than is needful, and 
thinking how little like the prisoner at the bar his boy looks, 
standing erect there, his head held well up, his dark face a 
little pale, his frank, honest, fearless eyes meeting theirs un- 
flinchingly. For Dick, a very craven in his secret soul, be- 
fore his accusing angels, has a dogged instinct that he means 
to die game, outwardly at least. 

" Vera Martinez is blighted for life," says Mrs, Charlton, 
opening her sealed lips, and speaking in a deep, strong, slow, 
rasping, ominous monotone. 

1 Madam I " says Dick Ffrench, savagely, swinging round, 
his face flushing red. 

" Blighted for life 1 " repeats Mrs. Charlton, waving him 
contemptuously down — " irretrievably blighted I She must 
live under a cloud all the rest of her days. It would have 



1J4 A MORNING AT SBADDECK LIGHT. 

been better for her if you had turned her out in the storm li 
perish, than have kept her here. Last night will be fatal for- 
ever to the reputation of this most unhappy young girL" 

She waves her hand again ; her tone is deep and Siddons. 
like; it freezes the very marrow of this hapless young 
man's bones. Her gesture is tragic — indeed, she looks un- 
commonly like the tragic muse altogether, grown elderly and 
stout Her stony stare is a blood-freezing thing to meet 
Her words go through him one by one like bullets. Dora 
stands pallid, mournful, despairing — life evidently holds noth- 
ing more for her. 

Mr. Charlton is near her, gloomy, silent, frowning. He 
and Dot are the gentlemen of the jury, Mrs. Charlton is the 
Judge. The black cap is ready ; he has been tried by his peers 
and found guilty. If he has anything to say why the sen- 
tence of the law should not be pronounced, now is the time I 
It is the supreme hour of his life. And he stands, tall, 
square-shouldered, upright, looking from one to the other, 
the wretched prisoner in the dock, reading no hope of mercy 
in either Rhadamanthus face. 

" Look here I " he bursts out at last, " this is all con- 
founded rubbish, you know. Blighted 1 Under a cloud I 
Sent adrift to perish ! By George ! You use forcible 
English, Mrs. Charlton 1 I tell you, governor, I tell you, 
Miss Lightwood, I tell you, madam, I am not to blame. It 
was simply an impossible thing for Vera to go home last 
night. As to sending her out to perish, that is all bosh, of 
course." 

" I have nc c ore to say/ 1 says Mrs. Charlton, folding her 
hands, and turning austerely away. " It is no business of 
mine. My daughter knows nothing of it, and shall not It 
is a very delicate and disagreeable subject I wash my hands 
of the whole matter. If the yeung person herself is satisfied, 1 " 
with a short, file-like laugh, "we may be, I think." 

" She is such a child — such a child," sobs Dora, covering 



4 



A MORNING AT SBADDBCK U9BT. 135 

her free with her hands, " ihe does not know. Oh i why did 
we ever, ever come I " 

Dick puts his hands to his head, feeling that his senses art 
reeling. What has he done — what is he to do ? Is it really 
such a tremendous affair as they are trying to make out, or 
is all this a new version of Much Ado About Nothing ? He 
is not verged in the nicer gradations, the subtler shades of 
feminine propriety, as rigidly required by Mrs, Grundy — he 
only knows that he wishes an earthquake would split Shad- 
deck Light in two and swallow him bodily. It would be less 
terrific than Dora's sobs, or Mrs. Charlton's death's-head 
stare. 

"What do you want me to do?" he demands, turning at 
bay upon his tormentors at last 

"I?" She laughs another short, rasping laugh. " Noth- 
ing whatever. It is nothing to me. Vera Martinez's dis- 
grace does not touch " 

" Disgrace 1 " cries Richard Ffrench, with sudden fierce- 
ness, facing her. 

" There is no other word for it that I know of— no other 
the world will call it by." 

"The world be " 

"No 1 " says Mrs. Charlton, lifting her arm "that I will 
not endure. Swearing or passion never mended a shat- 
tered reputation yet I permit no man to blaspheme in my 
presence." 



" You mean to say 



" I mean to say that I have no more to say. You are 
neither so ignorant, nor so innocent as you pretend. You are 
a ma*, of the world, Captain Ffrench, and do not need me 
to tell you what construction the world — when it knows it — 
will put upon Miss Yera's — ahem— eccentricity of last night 
It is a very painful and embarrassing subject — I really must 
decline to discuss it now or at any other time." 

" But, by Heaven ! it shall be discussed," exclaims Cap 



t J6 A MORNING AT SHADDECX UG&T. 

tain Ffrench, fairly enraged u You come here, and blacken 
that child's character, and then tell me you will not discuss 
the subject " 

" I blacken her character 1 You forget yourself Captain 
Ffrench I Mr. Charlton, I must insist upon going. I never 
permit myself to be insulted twice." 

" I beg your pardon 1 " Dick says, hastily, and with a sud- 
den total change of tone. " I have no right to lose my tem- 
per. If you and Miss Lightwood, governor, will leave us for 

a few minutes I would like to — to " he is at a dead-lock, 

and the sentence is not finished. 

Dora's tears upset him beyond everything, and if there if 
any grain of truth in all this rhodomontade he would like to 
get at it Vera to suffer through him 1 Why he would not 
have a hair of the dear little thing's head hurt for a universe. 

They obey — Dora indeed wipes her eyes, and departs with 
alacrity. He places a chair for his marble guest, and takes 
another. 

" Sit down," he says, briefly ; " let us get at the head fend 
front of my offending, if we can. In all innocence — in all 
inability to help myself it seems I have blundered. You tell 
me I did wrong in keeping the little one last night To do 
otherwise was simply impossible, but we will let that go. 
Keep her I did. By so doing you say I have blighted her 
good name for life. Now there are but two sorts of evil I 
take it, the curable, and the incurable. To which does this 
belong? ' 

"To the curable, decidedly," replies Mrs. Charlton, 
promptly. She sees she is torturing her victim, and takes a 
malignant delight in his writhing. She feels as a cold-blood- 
ed naturalist may who has a rare and precious beetle fan 
paled on a pin. 

"That is welL Now what am I to do ? * 

"Does the * what am I to do' not present itself unsng« 
gesfeed. Captain Ffrench ? In my day when a young mat 



4 MORNING AT SB At DECK UGBT. l$? 

seriously compromised a young woman, mere was lot one 
honorable alternative — to marry her 1 * 

She brings out the word with vicious rtlish. She has not 
the faintest, slightest, most shadowy thought that he will en' 
tertain the idea, or she would never utter it. Has he not 
been but just rejected by her daughter — does he not Uok 
upon Vera as a little girl, as in point of fact she is ? " Pure 
cussedness " has more to do with the spiteful suggestion than 
any thought of the possibility of its being acted upon. 

He sits quite still, looking at her — his hands deep in hit 
pockets, after his usual abstracted fashion, profound gravity 
on his face. 

" This is the one alternative ? " he asks. 

" The one alternative," she answers, " and in this case oat 
of the question." 

" Why out of the question ? " 

" Why I " in imitated surprise. " Why ? Because she if 
too young ; because she is a great grown up baby ; because 
you don't care a pin about her; because you are going 
away ; because — oh I this is nonsense and a waste of time, 
and I really must go I " 

He makes no attempt to detain her. He rises, opens the 
door politely, and escorts her to the boat In it is seated 
Vera, her little straw hat tilted over her nose, half asleep in 
the sun. On the rocks are seated Mr. Charlton and Dora, 
m deep conversation — Dora still looking stricken and 
mournful, but resigned. Vera starts up at sight of him, 
They are making a great fuss about nothing she thinks, and 
badgering Captain Dick for what is no fault of his, with his 
hart shoulder and everything. 

u Governor," he says very quietly, " you will be at home 
tor the rest of the day, I suppose ? Some time this aftet- 
noon I shall go ashore and have a talk with you* Ladies, 
good-morning." 

He takes off his hat oatemooiooaly to dame and domoi 



rj8 A MORNING AT SHADDECr LIGHT. 

selle ; to Vex a he gives a parting smile. That and the fad 
that he is coming later on, sends her home happy. No one 
scolds her, no one asks her questions, the subject Is tacitly 
dropped. The worst is over ; Captain Dick has been hon- 
orably discharged on her evidence alone, and she lifts up 
her voice and sings, half in gladness, half in mischievous de- 
fiance of grim Mrs. Charlton: 

••A fair good mora to thee Ion, 

A fair good morn to thee, 
And pleasant be thy path love, 

Though it end not with 



Her high, sweet singing comes back on the morning wind 
to Richard Ffrench where he stands, and a smile breaks up 
the dark gravity of his thoughtful face, 

•• No vows were ever plighted— 

We'd no farewell to lay ; 
Gay were we when we met first. 

We parted just as gay. 

•• A fair good morn to thee love, 

A fair good morn awhile ; 
I have no parting signs to give, 

So take my parting smile I " 



At all times it comes as naturally as unconsciously, almost 
as frequently to Vera to carol as to breathe. The last words 
float back to him, as the Nixie turns into her little cave and 
disappears. 

"A grown up baby I " he repeats. " Yes, Mrs. Charlton, 
you are right, but baby or no baby my poor little Vera, it 
I am to ask you tc be my wife," 



captain d/cjts wooinq. ijg 




CHAPTER XV. 

CAPTAIN DICK'S WOOING. 

[1FTEEN minutes later Daddy appears in a hang* 
dog and apologetic fashion, looking sober and 
sorry for it He had been overtaken by the 
storm, it appeared, and lying down in a back kitchen he 
knew of, had fallen asleep. For Daddy to fall asleep was a 
much easier thing than to awake ; the gray dawn was break- 
ing when he opened his eyes again on this mortal life. 

Captain Ffrench waves him away. He might have apos- 
trophized him as erstwhile Sir Isaac Newton did his immor- 
tal dog, Diamond : " Oh, Daddy ! Daddy ! little thou know- 
est the mischief thou hast done I " But the case is beyond 
all apostrophizing. 

"Go in and get your breakfast," he says, resignedly; 
" don't trouble yourself with excuses. You have made the 
most distinguished blunder of your life, if the knowledge 
will give an edge to your appetite." 

He is leaning over the low wall that incloses the house, 
his arms folded, and is preparing to think it out He had 
been annoyed last night for Vera's sake, had thought it an 
awkward contretemps for the child; but the light in which 
the situation has been presented to him this morning, stag- 
gers him. These women should know better than he, and 
if it is as they say, then reparation must be made, as a sim- 
ple matter of coarse. But is it ? It looks absurd to him— 
women have a fashion of magnifying molehills into moun- 
tains ; but for all that they may be very riqht ; no one knows 
less than he. It is certainly true tnat he was in fault; 
Vera would— and wished to — and could easily have walked 



1 40 CAPTAIN DIC ITS WOOING 

ashore half an hour after she came, and he prevented bet 
"You have blighted her whole life!" The words came 
back to him in every surge of the surf, in a dread monotone. 

Can it be true ? His science is at fault here ; all his big 
books, mathematical, botanical, geological, cannot help him 
out of his fog. " Under a cloud her whole life-long 1 " 
Mrs. Charlton must have meant it ; she has no motive for 
saying what is false. And Dora's sobs, and his step-father's 
frown — yes, it must be so. A horrible blunder has been 
made^ and the penalty must be paid by both. He faces the 
situation as squarely as he faced the columns of the enemy 
in the rattling charges of his old trooper days. Vera shall 
never suffer through him ; if giving her his name can shield 
her from the world's slanders, she shall have it. But, poor 
child I what a shame, what a desecration of holy childhood 
it seems. Her liking for him is so frank, so open, so inno- 
cent, so fearless — it is akin to sacrilege to turn it to some- 
thing she must blush for, and shrink from, and fear to show. 

For himself it does not so much matter, and yet he likes 
ais liberty as well as most men, and matrimony, in the ab- 
stract, is a subject on which he has never bestowed much 
thought He is not of a susceptible nature : even in his 
calf-love days he never had the epidemic very badly. Cer- 
tainly he has asked Miss Charlton to marry him — he admires 
her, esteems her, for her beauty, her goodness, her worth. 
If she had consented, he would doubtless have settled down 
into a very admirable married man — as married men go, and 
made as humdrum a head of a family as the majority. He 
would, no doubt, have been happy, too, not rapturously, not 
excitedly blissful, but with a cool, steady going, calm con- 
tent, that would have spread out thin, and lasted better 
than the enthusiastic sort of thing. But Miss Charlton has 
said no, and he is bearing up under it, and despair has not 
marked him for her own. But whether or no, to have to 
marry little Vera I " By Jove I " says Captain Dick blankly 



CAPTAIN DIC ITS WOOjNG. 14* 

aloud. The thing refuses to look reasonable, all his think* 
tag faculties are at a dead lock. " Marry little Vera 1 * 
And then he laughs — something utterly absurd in the whole 
thing strikes his sense of the ludicrous. It is the most de- 
licious joke — or would be, if he were only a second, not a 
principal. Marry little Vera I Marry the Dofia Martinez I 
Marry that small girl — only sixteen, by George 1 and hardly 
twelve, so far as her ideas matrimonial are concerned! 
What will Englehart and the rest of them say ? 

But his sense of the humor of the thing is not hilarious. 
Poor little Vera 1 it is a shame 1 And in years from now— 
six — ten — how will she regard it ? Will such a marriage not 
spoil her life far more than the lack of it ? She is not com- 
petent to judge for herself ; there are misses of sixteen, with 
all a woman's maturity of judgment on the two great sub- 
jects of female life — dress and husbands ; but she is not one 
of them. There are girls and girls. Vera will say yes if he 
asks her, because she likes him in her girlish fashion, and 
because she does not understand enough to say no. His 
face grows grave — he resolves that he never will ask hen 
If her life is to be sacrificed, some one else shall prevail 
upon her to sacrifice it Still his duty — if it be his duty — 
must be done. 

He stands a long time there, grave, preoccupied, trying 
to see daylight, and failing lamentably. It is all a muddle 
— and much thinking only makes a bad matter worse. He 
gives it up at last, and goes indoors to his big, dusty, grim- 
looking volumes. These are friends, at least, that never be- 
wilder — that are tried, and trusty, and true. But reading is 
not so easy as he thinks. Vera comes between him and 
every page ; Vera with her wistful face, as he opened his 
eyes, and saw her first last evening, frightened, troubled for 
him ; Vera all bright with defiance this morning, taking her 
stand by his side, and doing battle in his defence; Vera 
seated beside him, telling him her pathttic little story of 



143 CAPTAIN DICK S WOOING. 

death, and loss, and weary work. And he has done hoi 
harm I He feels as a man may who has crippled fat life 
through his blundering carelessness a little child. 

Poor little Vera 1 dear little Vera ! Either fete seems 
equally hard for her. But his mind is made up. If Vera ia 
not old enough, or wise enough to decide for herself her 
sister is both. Shrewd, unscrupulous, keen little woman of 
the world that she is. Dora shall be umpire. She loves 
the little one — surely she will know and decide for the best. 

It is almost three o'clock in the afternoon when Captain 
Ffrench is shown into his step-father's private study. Mr. 
Charlton is ensconced in his arm-chair, lying back with closed 
eyes, and in a low rocker near Miss Lightwood sits reading 
aloud. And very charming indeed Miss Lightwood looks, 
in the green twilight of the shaded room, as fair, and fresh, 
and pink as a rose. Her dress is white Swiss, and crisp as a 
new bank-note, and her pretty arms and neck sparkle 
through its gauzy clearness — her fair hair is "done" in a 
gilded pyramid on the top of her head, and frizzed down 
to her eyebrows. She lays down her book and looks up 
with a smile, but the smile fades when she sees the visitor. 
She rises, gives him one reproachful glance, says something 
incoherently, and hurries out of the room. Evidently she has 
not got over it 

"lam very sorry to intrude upon you," Captain Ffrench 
says, standing erect, a certain stiffness, both in words and 
manner. "I certainly would not have done so, after out 
recent interview, but for this unfortunate affair of last night 91 

"You do well to call it an unfortunate aflfafc It is that, 
and more, and she is likely to find out to her coat poor little 
fool J " 

" Not if any action of mine can repair the folly. The 
fruit of her staying was wholly mine — thoughtlessly, but ab- 
solutely mine. She wanted to go home ; she could have 
gone home, bat I liked to have her with me, and detained 




a 
? i 

_ . do you think I 

-j^ if she wul have yo*»* 
Ml Chariton looks up voder kit bwshy 
now*. In his bent he knows this advice is not distal etested 
— inhb heart he knows tf his boy were not on the verge ot 
de partur e lor years, he would never give it Vera is well 
moogk but she is too young to be Dfck*s wife* He wishes 
to see him married and settled, hot not to a half-educated 
■tip of a girt But he too has argued die matter out, and it 
stands thus : If Dick does not marry he will go—if he does 
many he must — he ought, in common decency, to stay* 
Ergo, it is better he should marry. And then Dora has been 
talking to him, and making him see the case with her sharp 
little eyes. It is coming to this pass, that Dora wan make 
him see all things pretty much as she wishes. 

"Very well, sir," says Dick Ffrench, resignedly, "that is 
alL I abide by your decision. Now I will leave you. I 
trust your coming out this morning \u not caused any re* 
lapse?" 

Mr. Charlton replies curtly in the negative. Hs is dying 
to know what is in Dick's mind, what he intends to do, if ha 
will really propose to Vera, and, pending her growing up, 
assign Honduras, but he is too proud to ask* Dick nmsl 



144 CAPTAIN D/CJTS fTOOIMG. 

volunteer, he will never again broach the Honduras matter 

"Where am I most likely to find Miss Lightwood?" 
Ffrenchasks. 

" Miss Lightwood ? Do you mean Vera ? " 

u I mean Miss Lightwood I am going up to New York 
by the five o'clock train, and have a few words to say to her 
first/ 

" She is generally in the drawing-room when she is not 
here." Going to New York, Mr. Charlton thinks. Humph ! 
that is odd too. 

Dora is in the drawing-room, in the recess of a bay-win- 
dow, embowered in flowers. At quite the other end of the 
room, Eleanor is at the piano, playing one of Schubert* s 
tender, pathetic pieces. He greets her gravely and passes 
on, and stands before Dora. What he has to say he can 
say in a few words — to all intents and purposes they are 
alone. 

•'I am going to New York this afternoon," he begins, 
u and am not likely to be down again more than once before 
my departure, and then only for a few hours." 

She glances up quickly; it is not the opening she has 
looked for, but something in his face and tone tells her there 
is more behind. 

" I do not forget what you and Mrs. Charlton said to me 
this morning — that is not likely. It has made all the impres- 
sion either of you could desire. I am here to make whatevet 
atonement I can make — whatever it is my duty to make. You 
are Vera's sister, friend, monitor— older, wiser, better versed 
in the world than she. Her welfare must be near to your 
heart. Decide for her then. In this evil, that I have in 
adveitently brought upon her what is it that you wish me to 
do?" 

Her cheeks flush hotly. He stands before her, erect, so 
masterful, so simple, so earnest, in his strong, young man 
hood, that he puts her to shame. After al^ she is a woman. 



CAPTAIN DICJTS WOOING. 145 

he a man, and the blunt directness of the question make* 
hei wince, and turn hot all over her body. " I want you to 
marry my sister," is almost as hard to say as " I want you to 
marry me" 

" Will you not sit down ? " she says, almost petulantly, and 
turning from him. 

" Thank you — no. If I catch my train," looking at his 
watch, " I have but little time to spare. This is a matter I 
cannot possibly discuss with Vera ; cannot broach to her at 
all. I want my answer then from you." 

"Do you mean to say you will not speak to her at all of— 
of » 

" I mean to say I will not speak to her at alL Whatever 
b to be said to the poor child, you — her sister — shall say it 
From first to last, the issue and its consequences shall rest 
with you." 

She looks up at him, and almost hates him. All the same, 
all the more, he shall marry Vera. 

" It is rather hard to throw the consequence of yoiv 
Imprudence and hers, on my shoulders. Still, as you say 
her welfare is very dear to me. .We two stand quite alone 
in the world. I am bound not to see her wronged without 
lifting my voice. And — thoughtlessly I am sure — meaning 
no ill I know, you have done her grievous wrong, Captain 
Ffrench ! n 

" So it seems. Now, how am I to set that wrong right ? " 

" There is but one way," she says, and looks him boldly 
in the face, though her color deepens again. 

"And that is ?" 

" To shield her with your name — to make her your wife." 

He bows his head. Eleanor sits with her back to him, 
playing very softly, so as not to disturb their conversation. 
A strange sort of angry, impatient pain nils him, set, it seems 
to him, in some intangible way to the ziournful sweetness of 
the air. 

9 



146 CAPTAIN JD/CJTS WOOING 

"Does she know?" he asks at length. 

"She knows nothing" Dora interrupts quickly, "not!* 
big I Do you think I would tell her, Captain Ffrcnch? 
Vera is as innocent as an angel, as ignorant as a baby. No 
one has said one word to her." 

" That is well. And now the matter simplifies itself. I 
am going as I say — I will be down only once more. You 
will ask your sister for me, if she will do me the honor to 
become my wife. Her answer, you, or she, or both can 
write. Here is my address. If that answer is yet " 

" It will be yes," says Dora, very low. 

" You will arrange the marriage for the twenty-third. On 
the twenty-fourth I will sail with the expedition. My friend, 
Dr. Englehart, will come down with me ; and I — if it is all 
the same to you and her — I should wish the matter kept as 
private as may be. lean depend upon Englehart, and I think 
it is best the others should not know. It is a subject you 
see on which I should not relish chaft" 

She looks up at him. "You will really go then?" is on 
the tip of her tongue, but she bites it and bows silently. 

" It shall be as you say. If Vera is to be wooed and won 
by proxy, I might as well be the ambassadress, I suppose 
Please give me your New York address." 

He gives it And now a sense of the grim humor of the 
thing begins to dawn on Dora. She is a designing little 
witch, but she has this redeeming point, she knows a joke 
when she sees it and can laugh. A faint smile ripples about 
her lips now, as with the greatest gravity he pencils his hotel, 
and hands it to her. 

"You will say to Vera — for me — what you think best 
On the twenty-third I will be here. You will make het 
understand that I do not give up the expedition, and that I 
may be absent for years. Mr. Charlton will of course give 
her a home here, until my return— that I most exact if I 
You will mention it to him. 19 



CAPTAIN DICK'S WOOING. M7 

M Anything else. Captain Ffrench ? " 

"That is all, I think. I will not see Vera just now— k k 
better I should not Make my adieus to her. Good- day, 
Miss Lightwood." 

He bows and departs. Dora looks alter him a moment, 
her bright eyes dancing with laughter. 

" Was there ever such a great, simple-headed, ridiculous 
Dick," she thinks. " /am to do his courting, am I ? What 
an artless pair he and Vera will make — about five years old, 
each of them I " 

She laughs softly, as she watches him say good-by to 
Eleanor. 

" And what will Nelly say — asking her one day, and mar 
rying Vera the next ? And her mother I Ah I Mrs. Charl 
ton, you builded better than you knew, when you took Cap 
tain Dick to task — not for Vera's sake, but to gratify youi 
own inborn ill-nature. And Charlton is to be the child's 
home after all 1 " 

She sees the young man leave the house, and go down the 
avenue with his long trooper's stride. Vera is nowhere 
about, and he is glad of it. He feels he cannot meet her 
just now. When he has quite gone, Dora rises briskly, and 
goes up to her sister's room. Vera lies, indulging in an 
afternoon siesta, induced by her sentimental vigil of last 
night, all unconscious that the hair is past, and her hem 
come and gone. 



148 MOW MHHtd DOES MT. 



CHAPTER ZVL 



HOW DORA DOBS IE. 




|ORA stands a moment and looks at her sister, a half 
smile on her face. Vera has coiled herself up like 
a kitten, in her white cover — sleep and warmth 
have flushed her cheeks — all her black, short tresses curl up 
damp and silky around her forehead. She looks like the 
child she is, although tall and well-grown for her sixteen 
years, and she comes nearer being pretty, just now, than 
Dora has ever seen her. 

" Can it be possible she is going to grow into a handsome 
woman ? " Miss Lightwood thinks ; " her father was, I think, 
the handsomest man I ever saw, and Vera resembles him. 
If she does, Richard Ffrench will not have done so very badly 
after alL He is fond of her, too, but not in that way— yet 
Men of his stamp never fall in love with girls in the transi- 
tion stage — in the short frock — and bread-and-butter epoch — 
they require full-grown women. Weill Vera will be that 
before he returns from his silver mining, and then he can 
woo his wife at his leisure." 

She takes a seat by the window, through which a cool 
breeze is blowing up from ShaddeckBay. She does not 
awaken her sister; there is no hurry. It has been said 
already that this girl is the one creature on earth Dora 
Lightwood loves. To her mind this thing she is about to 
do is a proof of that love. Vera is fond, very fond of 
Richard Ffrench ; she admires him beyond everything — he 
is her Sir William Wallace, her Sir Folko Montfau$on, bet 
Sir Launcefa* all in one, and a little superior to any of theia 



BOW DORA DOES IT. 149 

What can conduce more to her future happiness than to be 
made his wife ? Vera has never thought of this, never once, 
and Dora knows it — her fondness and admiration are in the 
abstract. She would be perfectly satisfied to see him married 
to Eleanor or herself — all the same she would like to remain 
near him, to be with him always. The girlish fancy which 
makes him her ideal hero of romance now, will make him 
the man she loves by and by. Vera is of the type whose 
destinies are ruled much more by their heart than head — her 
love will make or mar her life. Then — taking a more practi- 
cal turn — Captain Ffrench is likely, eventually, to be not only 
a very rich, but also a very distinguished man. He has 
toient of no common order, he has unflinching determination, 
* dogged resoluteness to succeed. He is not afraid of hard 
work or waiting. Men of that kind are bound, sooner or 
later, to go up to the head of the class. Married to him, 
Vera's toiling days will be over ; Charlton, which she loves 
so much, will be her home ; she will have nothing to do, but 
grow up gracefully, study the accomplishments, transform 
herself into a pretty woman, and win her husband's heart on 
his return. On the whole, it is just as well he is going. Vera 
is too young ; she needs at least four years of hard study, 
then a winter in " the world ;" at the end of that time she 

will be fit to be any man's wife. For herself but here 

Dora breaks off, and her musing, half smile deepens. She 
has her own dreams> and into them the show-rooms on 
Fourteenth Street erter not She may sweep through 
madame's handsome suite occasionally, but it will not be at 
forewoman. The waving trees of Charlton Place cast invit- 
ing shadows as she sits and looks. These are pleasant 
pastures — why go out from them to crop the scant] herbage 
tnat grows about the streets of New York ? 

All in a moment Vera awakes, looks blinking*/ about bet, 
robs her knuckles into her eyes, and sits up with a gape. 

" Yon. Dot ? Is it morning ? " 



ISO HOW DORA DOES IT. 

" It it five in the afternoon," answers Miss Lightwood 
14 1 hope yon have had a long enough nap." 

Five in the afternoon I Memory comes back to Vera 
with a bounce. She jumps out of bed, and stands the picture 
of consternation. 

" Five I and Captain Dick said he would te here at three. 
Has he not come, then ? " 

" Captain Dick is the soul of punctuality, my dear, and 
every other virtue. He has been and gone." 

"Goner 

"Gone — gone to New York. He bade me saygood-by 
ft* him to you. He has been gone precisely half an hour." 

Vera sits down on the side of the bed, dismay in every 
feature. Tears fill her eyes, tears of anger, and reproach, 
and keenest disappointment Her lips quiver. 

" Gone 1 and you never called me. Oh, Dot I" 

" Did you want to see him so badly, then ? Why, child, 
it is not possible you are crying ? Oh, this will never do ! 
you are as ignorant as a Hottentot of all sense of feminine 
decorum." 

" I don't care for decorum," says Vera, swallowing a gulp, 
« and I do " 

" For Dick Ffrench. That is patent to the universe. My 
dear, do you know what your Captain Dick would have a 
right to think if he saw you now I " 

" That I was awfully sorry he went aw*y without saying 
good-by." 

"Worse than that— that you were awfully in love with 
hin\.' 

If Dora expects to galvanize Vera into a sense of her in 
decorum by this abrupt announcement, she is mistaken. Vera 
only chews the end of her handkerchief, and looks a trifle 
sulky. 

" I don't care 1 He wouldn't think anything of the kind 
As if a person couldn't like a person withe at being in love 



MOW DORA DOES IT. 15* 

with him. I drink it was hateful of 70a, Dot, not to tall met 
when yoa knew I wanted to see him so much.' 9 

"Yon always do want to see him so much, don't yon? 
And it is such a tremendous time since yoa saw him hut 1 I 
should think," says Dora, a smile dawning about her pretty 
mouth, "you and he could have talked yourselves completely 
out of every earthly subject last night" 

"We didn't sit up talking all night, and you know it 
And now he has gone to New York, and perhaps will not 
come down again at all" 

The tears are welling very near the surface again, and 
tremble in the voice that speaks. 

" Oh, yes, he will — he said so ; he told me to tell you so, 
He is coming down for a particular purpose, indeed. Vera, 
come here — sit down. I have a message for you from 
Captain Ffrench." 

Vera looks eagerly. 

"Yes, Dot? But yon might have called me, I think 
What is it?" 

" You are very fond of Captain Dick, are you not ? * 

" Of course I " says Vera, promptly, and a little indig 
nantly, at being questioned on such a self-evident feet " I 
don't see how any one could help it" 

Again Dora smiles, laughs outright indeed. It is impossi- 
ble to help it — the child is so overpoweringly verdant 

"Well — but it won't do to say so to everybody you know. 
You are sixteen, Vera, and tall enough to be twenty. Yon 
are a young lady — not a child." / 

" Am I ? " doubtfully. " I wish you wouldn't keep my 
messes up to my ankles then, and I should love to have a 
crinoline. But the message I the message I Captain Dick 
didn't tell you to tell me I was grown up ? " 

44 Something like it Vera, your simplicity, your green- 
ness exceeds all belief! Look here I do you happen to know 
what being married means ?" 



1 13 BOW DORA DOES IT. 

"Certainly I do !" retorti Vera, indignantly ; "it 
everything dowdy and stupid that ever was I It means scold- 
ing the help, and slapping the children, and having a horrid 
time getting money from your husband " 

" Yes, I see you know," says Dora, laughing. " You are 
thinking of Mrs. Trafton. But everybody does not of neces- 
sity marry a rich old miser. " Some girls," says Dora, smiling 
into her sister's large, unconscious eyes, •• marry tall, good- 
looking young gentlemen— ex-captains of cavalry, let us say 
—of whom they are very, very, very fond, and they live in 
places they think beautiful beyond telling, and are happy as 
the day is long. Vera ! Vera I what a goose you are I don't 
you understand ? Would you not like to be married ? Would 
you not like to be married to Richard Ffrench ? " 

Vera sits quite still, her eyes so unwinkingly fixed upon 
her sister, that she makes that eminently self-possessed young 
woman wince. Her color rises slowly, and deepens and 
deepens, but she looks neither startled nor sly. 

" I don't know what you mean," she says. 

" Oh, yes you do I You are fond of Captain Dick. When 
a young lady is fond of a young gentleman she naturally 
wishes to marry him." 

" Does she ? " says Vera, dubiously. " I suppose so. It 
always ends that way in stories. But I am not fond of Cap- 
tain Ffrench like— like that? 

" No ? In what way then ? " 

U I never thought about marrying," says Vera, the red ris- 
ing to the roots of her hair, " and you know it." 

" But he has," says Dora, with emphasis : a he is not quite 
such a babe in the wood as you, my dear Vera. He has 
iiought about marrying, not only thought about it, but spoke* 
about it." 

u About — marrying — me t " 

" About — marrying— you I " 

4 But that is all nonsense 1 " cms Vera, amaied and ift 



BOW DORA DOES IT. 1 53 

(fignant " He most have been in fun, yon know. Why, it 
is absurd I Only a week or so ago he asked Eleanor. X 
wish you wouldn't say such ridiculous things, Dot" 

" Now, Vera, listen here. It isn't ridiculous. Captain 
Ffrench certainly asked Eleanor to marry him, but it was to 
please his step-father, not himself ; he likes you best Do 
you think he took Miss Charlton's refusal very much to 
heart ? Why, any one could see he was glad of it. He likes 
you best, and he wants you to marry him, Vera." 

" Wants me to marry — him I " 

The words drop from her slowly, in vast amaze. She if 
trying to take in the idea. It is so entirely new that it re- 
fuses to be taken in all in a moment But a great, slow 
light of gladness is coming into her eyes, too. 

" Wants you to marry him," repeats Dora, watching het 
closely. 

The dark eyes flash out a quick, sudden joy. 

" Dot, would he stay at home ? Would he stay here al- 
ways ? Would he not go to Honduras ? " 

" Oh, well, I am not so sure about that He has prom- 
ised, you know, and men like to keep their word. But he 
would come back all the sooner, and when he came back 
you need never be separated from him more." 

Never be separated from him more 1 — never be separated 
from Captain Dick ! There is rapture in the thought It 
dawns upon her slowly. Always with him, rowing, driving, 
singing — seeing him, hearing him, becoming acquainted with 
his numberless perfections day after day. Why the very 
thought is elysian. 

" Dora," she says, in solemn ecstasy, " I should live to 
marry Captain Dick 1 " 

The look that accompanies this is too much for Dora. She 
leans back in her chair and laughs until the tears ~tand in 
her eyes. 

«Oh, Vera, child, you will be the death of me yet 1 Ohj 



154 HOW DORA DOBS IT. 

you simpleton 1 Yon must never say such a thing ti 
that I " 

"Why not, if it is tree?" 

" Because — because the troth, the whole truth, is not to 
be told at all times. It is too rare and precious to be used 
in common in that way. Why, it would turn this crazy old 
world topsy-turvy in no time. You must never, never say 
you would love to marry any man. It is simply awful I " 

" Not even Captain Dick ?" 

" Not even Captain Dick — least of all Captain Dick. You 
must never let a man know you are so fond of him as all 
that. It would be ruinous." 

" Would it ? " says Vera, looking dreadfully puzzled. " I 
am afraid I don't understand." 

"lam afraid you don't But you understand this — dial 
Captain Dick wants to marry you ?" 

" What does he want to marry me for ? " 

There is something so irresistible in Vera's gravity as she 
asks these killing questions, that Dora nearly goes off again. 
But she restrains herself. 

" Because he is very fond of you, of course. The fondness 
is mutual, you see. Why does any gentleman ask a lady to 
uafry him?" 

" To please his step-father sometimes, it seems. But that 
cannot be the reason now. Mr. Charlton does not want 
him to marry me. Dora, I believe this is all some joke you 
have made up to tease me." 

" On my honor I The last thing Captain Dick said to me, 
not an hour ago, was to ask you to be his wife before he 
started for Central America." 

"Then he was playing a practical joke, and I must 
say " 

44 Vera, don't be an idiot ! I tell you no ! He likes jmt 
and wants to marry you, and Mr. Charlton is very much 
phased. Why don't vou believe me ? " 



TOW DO*A DOES IT. 151 



is the idea of anyone wanting to many me mr I 
Oh, it is ridlcnloos 1 And if he does* why didn't ycm 
wake me up, and let him ask me himself? " says Vera, stiD 
incredulous and suspicions. 

44 Why ? Oh 1 well, you see he was rejected by one lady 
such a very short time ago, that really the poor fellow has 
not the hardihood to risk a second refusal. He spoke to Mr. 
Charlton about it first this afternoon, and then to me. You 
were so young, he said* and he feared to startle you, and all 
that, and would I just ask you for him. So I said yes, and 
that is why he did not wait to see you* He was in a hurry, 
too, to catch the five o'clock express. Here is his New 
York address, and you are to write to him and tell him your 
decision." 

Slowly conviction is breaking upon Vera. But it is the 
strangest thing — the hardest to comprehend. Captain 
Ffrench want to marry her / She knows he likes her, but— 
she is fairly puzzled, troubled, afraid to believe, yet longing 
to do so. To be always with Captain Dick — always with him 
at Charlton. What a heavenly idea I 

" If you don't believe me, come to Mr. Charlton," fays 
Dora, calmly ; " he is not in the habit of playing practical 
jokes." 

But Vera rejects this idea with consternation. Not for all 
the world Is Dora sure he is really pleased? 

" Charmed,' 9 Dora asseverates. 

" And Eleanor, and Mrs. Charlton " 

" They, do not know — shall not know for the present The 
wedding is to oe strictly private. That is Captain Dick's wish.* 

The wedding 1 Vera gives a gasp. 

'• Then— when " 

44 In about a fortnight," responds Dora with composure ] 
" It is suddeo, but it is also his wish. He leaves on the 
twenty-fourth, he wishes the wedding to be on the twffrty 
third. Those are his words." 



156 HOW DORA DOBS IT. 

Vera fits silent Her unusual color is gone, and die duMr 
free and great dark eyes look wistfuL 

44 It is so strange — so strange," she sighs. " I don't know 
what to say " 

" You don't know what to say I " exclaims Dora, aghast 
with surprise, "why you inexplicable child, I thought yoi 
would be delighted." 

" Yes, yes, so I am. I like oh ! I do like Captain 

Dick I It is not that There is nothing in the world I would 
not do for him. But it is so new, so strange — .t frightens 
me somehow. To ask me to suddenly, to want to marry 
me, and then to go away just die same. When people marry 
people they stay at home with them, don't they ? " inquire* 
Vera, vaguely. 

" Mostly," answers Dora, unable to repress a smile, " but 
this is an exceptional case. Captain Dick would naturally 
prefer to remain at home, but having promised he is bound 
to perform. You would not have him break his word, would 
you?" 

" I would not have him do anything but what is noble and 
right," says Vera proudly, " he could not. If he wants me 
to marry him, I will mary him. If he wants me to go with 
him, I will go. If he wants me to stay here and wait for him, 
I will stay. I will do anything— everything — he wishes." 

"A most delightful state of wifely subjection and duty. 
Well, my dear, it was a hard task, but I have beaten it into 
your stupid little noddle at last. Captain Ffrench wants to 
marry you on the twenty-third of August, and the marriage 
is to be as much on the quiet as possible, because imme- 
diately after he is obliged to leave you. I was to tell you 
this, and you are to send him your answer under your own 
hand and seaL That is the case. And now, I will leave 
you to digest it at your leisure, for you still look haU 
dased." 

44 And the letter ? » 



A GOVS LETTER. 1 57 

M The letter will keep. To-morrow win do. ' And then 
■he goes, and Vera is alone. Alone, with a whole new 
world breaking upon her, a world of new thoughts, hopes* 
plans, possibilities, bliss. Captain Dick wants to marry her 
—wants to marry her — this king of men — she, little Vera 
Martinez, with the thin face, and long arms, and cropped 
hair, and brown skin 1 Why, it is wonderful ! The prince 
married Cinderella, to be sure, but then the fairy godmother 
had been to the fore first, and transformed the grimy little 
cinder-sifter into a lovely lady. Ah 1 why were die days o! 
fairy godmothers extinct ? Why can she not flash upon the 
dazzled vision of her hero, on the 23d inst with a complex • 
ion of milk and roses, floating tresses of golden sheen (the 
lady on the bottles of Mrs. Allan's Hair Restorer, is before 
Vent's mind's eye, as she thinks this), not a single project- 
ing bone or knuckle visible. And he will come back for her 
in a little while — has not Dot said so— and the fairy tale will 
end as a fairy tale ought, after alL "And they lived har.pj 
Vwever after." 



CHAPTER XVIL 



A girl's letter. 




|R CHARLTON comes down to dinner to-day for the 
first time since his illness, and looks keenly across 
the table at his step-daughter-in-law elect A 
glow of gladness is on the child's face, shining out as a light 
through a transparency. Her great new happiness is there 
for all the world to read. She blushes as she catches the old 
gentleman's eye — then laughs frankly, and Mi. Charlton 
•miles in sympathy with that gay little peaL 

" She is too young — too young, bat it wfl be all right hf 



1 58 A QIEVS LETTER. 

and by. IT the lad will hat stay/' he thinks, and looks wfck 
a sigh at the empty place. 

After dinner, in the drawing-room, he goes np to Vera and 
takes her hand. 

" And this is my little daughter ? " he says. 

She looks at him, and some womanly instinct awakes, and 
nils her eyes with tears. She stoops and kisses the wrinkled 
hand 

" If you will let me be, sir." 

44 And Dick's answer is yes ? " 

"It is yes, a thousand times over." 

" Good ! I like that Have you told him so yet?" 

" You know I did not see nun, sir. I am to write to 
morrow, Dora says." 

" Ah I Dora says," he smiles, " it will soon cease to be as 
Dora says. You are very fond of Dick, are you not, little 
Vera ? " 

" Very fond, sir," Vera says, fearlessly and frankly, and 
without a blush. 

" Well, my dear, God bless you. You must grow up a 
good, and clever, and accomplished woman, so he may be 
proud of you. For you are very young, my little girlie, to 
be married." 

"I know it, sir. Very young, very ignorant, very un- 
worthy to be Captain Dick's wife." 

" I don't say that And time works wonders. A girl with 
a head shaped like this, ought to have a brain. Beauty is 
very well — indispensable almost ; but brains are well, too— 
the combination is excellent in a woman. I am sure you 
will have the beauty, I think you will have the brains. And 
listen to me, little Vera — keep Dick at home when you get 
him." 

"I mean to try, sir," Vera answers, half laughing, half 
crying, "but, oh 1 it seems so presumptuous to think of his 
ever giving up anything to stay with me." 



A GIEVS LETTER. 1 59 

M I don't know about that Don't be too modest A man 

should stay with his wife. You must make yourself so fasci- 
nating, so accomplished, so charming, that he will be unable 
to leave you. You must study hard and grow up such a lady 
as we will all be proud o£" 

" I will try— oh, indeed I will try 1 " Vera exclaims, clasp- 
ing her hands. 

Ambition is stirring within her. Mr. Charlton's praises 
have elated her. Study, become accomplished, learned, 
clever — ah 1 will she not ? 

That evening passes like a dream — in Vera's after life its 
memory is misty as a dream. The restlessness that usually 
keeps her flitting about the room is gone ; she sits quite 
still, her hands clasped behind her head, a dreamy smile on 
her face, her little high-heeled shoes crossed one over the 
other on a hassock. Dora is playing chess with Mr. Charl- 
ton, as customary ; Mrs. Charlton sits making tatting ; Elea- 
nor is reading. Vera lifts her happy eyes and looks at her. 
Poor Nelly I she thinks, a great compassion filling her, how 
much she has lost. Does she realize it ? Surely not, or she 
never could sit there with that quiet face, reading so steadily. 
To refuse— deliberately and in cold blood to refuse Captain 
Dick ! As long as she lives, Vera feels, she will never be 
able to understand that ununderstandable wonder. 

The steadiness of her gaze magnetizes Miss Charlton. 
She looks up from her book, smiles, and comes towards 
her. 

" How quietly you sit ; how happy you look," she says, 
u You are not like yourself to-night What is it, my Vera ? " 

"I am happy," Vera answers, "happy, happy, happy 1 
So happy that I do not think anything can ever give me a 
moment's trouble again. I am the very happiest girl in all 
the world." 

44 Indeed?" Eleanor laughs. "Permit me to congmto 
late you. Isit indiscreet to ask the cause?" 



160 A COBS LETTER. 

"Ah! I cannot tell you ; it is a secre t ye t b at yo« will 
know soon," 

" It mast be rerj toon, then, for I am going away oa 

Monday." 

Vera opens her eyes. 

" On Monday ? Going away from Charlton for good ? " 

" For good. I hope yon are just a little sorry." 

" Oh, Nelly, sorry 1 indeed* indeed, yes 1 But so soon. 
Next Monday ? Oh, you must not ! Mr. Charlton will nevet 
consent" 

Eleanor smiles a little sadly. 

" That is your mistake, my dear ; Mr. Charlton has con 
sented." 

" But this is dreadfully sudden. Why, we were all to stay 
until September. What are you going so long before the 
time for ? Are you tired of Charlton ? " 

" Tired I " Eleanor answers, and looks out at the moon- 
light, lying in broad, pale sheets in the grass. " No, little 
Vera, it is not that. I am going because I must go. So I 
am not to know this wonderful secret it seems. And Cap- 
tain Dick gone, too I " smiling down into the eyes that droop 
suddenly, " and you and he such devoted friends I Did you 
see him this afternoon ?" 

"No, I did not see him," Vera answers, confusedly. 
What would Eleanor- say if she knew ? How can she sit 
and speak of him in that composed way when she has wil- 
fully lost him forever ? Does she guess it was only to please 
his step-father he asked her, and was she too proud to accept 
a reluctant lover ? Will she not be pained, mortified, hu- 
miliated, when she knows the truth ? Perhaps it is just as 
well for Eleanor's own sake she is going on Monday. It 
would be dreadful for her to be here, and see him married to 
somebody else. For she must regret him. It is out of the 
order of things for hex to help it, and this seeming serenity if 
bat the fair outside that covers a blighted heart. Something 



A QiRVS LETTER. l6l 

tike this goes through Yen's sentimental little head in the 
passe that ensues. Yes, on the whole, although she will 
miss and regret Nelly, it is as welL 

" I see I am to pine in ignorance," sajs Miss Charlton. 
"Well, I shall take away a picture of a radiant face at least, 
and two blissful black eyes. How beautiful Charlton looks 
to-night. I wonder if I shall ever see it again ? " 

"Indeed you shall I" cries Vera, with emphasis; "often 
and often! I mean," as Eleanor looks at her in surprise^ 
"that Mr. Charlton will invite you again next summer, 
and " 

" Mr. Charlton will not invite me next summer, my dear, 
and I have a tolerably strong conviction that I am looking 
my last on its green beauty. Well ! it is the inevitable, and 
at least I am the better for having been here. Come and 
sing for me ; I like that fresh skylark voice of yours. I will 
play. Do you know, Vera, you have a very fine voice— so 
fine, that, properly cultivated, you might leave off teaching, 
and distinguish yourself on the lyric stage." 

" I don't want to distinguish myself— in that way," Vera 
answers, thinking how differently the bolls of life are break- 
ing for her ; "but, all the same, it shall be cultivated, and 1 
am glad, very glad, it is fine." 

Again Eleanor looks at her in surprise. She does not un- 
derstand the girl this evening. What is this new happiness 
that has come to her? Has Mr. Charlton offered to adopt, 
educate, and keep her with him here always ? And is Dora 
to stay, too, as prime minister of the household ? It looks 
like it, and seems reasonable. He likes brightness, ani 
gayety, and youth, and pretty looks, and he is wealthy enough 
to indulge in more unreasonable whims. Of the dark doings 
of last night she knows nothing. Hei mother is still in a 
state of the blackest, silentest sulks ; no one else is likely to 
Inform her. So she settles it in her own mind that this is tfie 
solution, as she strikes the first chord of her accompsnimait 



162 A GUtVS LETTER. 

Fot a long time that night Vera lies awake, thinking oft 
her nsw felicity and of her letter. What is she to say to 
Captain Dick ? She knows nothing of the forms that obtain 
in love-letters, and her reading, copious, light, and romantic 
as it has been, gives her very little data to go upon. Sir 
Folko is a married man when the admiring reader is first in- 
troduced to him, consequently has no need to indite tender 
epistles. Ivanhoe never corresponded with either Rebecca 
or Rowena, so far as Vera can remember — very probably did 
not know how to write indeed ; and the Corsair, in all his 
piratical meanderings, never so much as sent a single postal- 
card to the drooping Medoral As it chances. Vera has 
written but two letters in her life, and these of the briefest, 
to the Miss Scudder of her story. She has a melancholy 
consciousness that she does not shine on paper, that neither 
her orthography, chirography, nor syntax, is above reproach. 
But then there is Dora — there is always Dora — Dora will 
know what to say, and how to spell the words of three 
syllables, if she has t# tackle any of these staggerers; 
and with this blissful sense of refuge she drops at last to 
sleep. 

But, to her surprise and indignation, Dora flatly refuses 
next day. 

" Write your own love-letters, my dear, 19 she says, coolly ; 
" it is a good rule never to interfere between man and wife 
— even if they are only man and wife- elect One never gets 
thanks in the end. Here is a nice sheet of thick white 
paper, a pen I can recommend, and a bottle of ink as black 
as your eyes. And here is a dictionary — I know that is in- 
dispensable, you poor little ignoramus. Now begin. Only 
I shall expect to see this famous production when done. In 
the annals of sentimental literature I am quite sure it will 
stand alone." 

Dora is obdurate, deaf to all pleading, to the great disgust 
of die letter-writer. Thrown thus upon her own resources* 



A GIRVS LETTSJL I#| 

Vera, after sitting for a while disconsolate, plucks op bssttt 
of grace, dipt her pen in the ink, and begins : 

" Chasxtost Placb, A«g 11, if ■ 
"Dkak Captain Dicks" 

That much glides off smoothly enough. Alter all people 
make a great deal more fuss about letter-writing than it is 
worth. Vera feels she would not accept help now if it was 
offered — she will do it alone or perish — with an occasional 
peep into the big dictionary. So knitting her brows into a 
reflective scowl, she goos on, murmuring her sentences half 
aloud as she writes : 

"Dear Captain Dicki Dora hai aakad ma to marry yom, I Ubr 
yon vary much, I think it would ba spLaodid to ba your wist. lam way 
saach obliged to you for wanting ma n 

" It sounds jerky, somehow," says Vera, pausing discon- 
tentedly, "and it has too many I's. I never let Lex put 
three of his I's so close together as that Dot! you are 
laughing ! " 

Dora is holding a book up before her face, and m shaking 
behind it At this accusing cry she looks over the top to 
protest she never was more serious in her life, but in the 
effort explodes into a perfect shout Vera lays down her 
pen in deepest dudgeon. 

" If you can do better, why don't you come and do it ? 
When a person refuses to help another person, and then can 
find nothing better to do than sit and laugh " 

" It — it is lovely I " gasps Dora, with tears in her eyes, 
" Did I not say it would be unique ? To interfere with that 
letter would be to paint the lily. Oh 1 go on — go on I I 
am much obliged to you for asking me ! ' Oh, my side ! I 
shall die if I laugh any more." 

" Isn't that right ? " inquires Vera, suspiciously. " I 
much obliged to him, and why shouldn't I say so ? " 



§64 a ears lmttem. 

••Why, fndeedP Oh, proceed— I promise Mt to faftaRUpl 



Vera compresses her Hpe, She feeli that this is hasd t» 
bear, and would scratch oat the much obliged, if the knew 
what to pat in its place. Bat she does not 



"Yon might have knocked mt down with a feather when Dot tdM 
at. The idea of being married to you, or anybody. Why, I never 
thought of such a thing. ' And you must see so many ladies elder and 
toller , and ever so mxich prettier than met I cannot for the life of ma 
see what yon want me for. But I would rather marry you than anybody 
in the world. And I think Ffrench a beautiful name. Veronica Mary 
Martinez Ffrench 1 Does it not sound kind of rich and imposing? Bat 
Mrs. Captain Richard French—/**/ is better still. And always to lire 
here (Dot says I shall), why it will be just like heaven. At least, I 
suppose, that is irreverent, but it will be a sort of paradise on earth— 
only I wish yon were not going away — it seems such a shame Just to get 
married, and then start off on a tour with Dr. Engiehart, and leave me 
behind. Couldn't / go to Honduras, too ? But there 1 I know I 
would be in the way, and I want to stay at home besides, and study ever 
so hard, so that you may not be ashamed of me when I grow up r The 
Idea of a gentleman's wife growing up. Is it not funny ?* 

Vera stops, making insane plunges at the inkstand, ner 
ayes on the sheet, all in a glow of inky inspiration. Dora, 
indeed I She would like to catch herself asking Dora to 
help her with her letters alter this, Why, it is as easy as 

talking. 

M You mast tell me when you come down about the things you would 
She me to study hardest when you are away. I hope you will not be 
very particular about botany and algebra— I hate arithmetic, and I knew 
t never earn master nine times. Oh 1 I nearly forgot ! I was dread' 
fully sorry you went away without speaking to me, but I was asleep up- 
stairs, and Dot never woke me. And now I shall only see you ones 
before you go, and then we will be in such a fuss getting married that 
we won't have time to say a single thing. What a levely chat we had 
at Shaddock Light night before last, hadn't we? I shall always lorn 
that little hous*. and I mean to take my books there when you are ; 



A cars LETTER. i6| 

best lJUr /Wfr md the reet of the thing tffl yea 
* hope you will com* back mm, It will be «v/W^ 
yon an gone." 

Here Vera falls back in her chair, exhausted, bat trium- 
phant She has filled three sides of her sheet already, and 
in her very finest hand. She is doubtful whether epistolary 
etiquette does not demand that the fourth page be left 
blank, but she will die rather than ask Dot 

"Done, dear ? " says Dora, coming over. "Let me read 
it* 

Vera yields it up reluctantly. She feels it is more than 
Dora deserves, but there may be some bad spelling — she has 
not consulted Webster — and it is best it should be as nearly 
perfect as possible. She watches her sister jealously as she 
reads, prepared to resent any symptom of unseemly levity. 
But Dora holds her risible faculties well in hand, and gets 
through without disgracing herself 

" It is exquisite, my child ; it is all my fancy painted it 
Now I think I would wind up, if I were you; let him have 
just enough to make him wish there was more.** 

" I think I have got in pretty much everything," says Vera, 
musingly. "I must tell him to excuse mistakes, and to 
write soon, and I am his affectionately. How do you spell 
aff-ec-tion-ate-ly, Dot ? I am sure of it ail but the 'shin.' " 

This knotty point is got over, the letter is finished, folded, 
enveloped. Vera licks the gum with relish, and sticks it 
with pride. Then she writes the address in her largest, 
noblest hand, 

"Captain R. C. Ffrench.* 

Was there ever such an idyllic name ? And the letter is 
an accomplished fact Her first real letter t her first love- 
lettrrl She holds it from her, and gazes on kC in that glow 
of pride and enthusiastic rapture with which a youthful artist 
gazes on his first painting — now in this light, now in that 



i€6 a cars lettem, 

"I ihall post this myself," says Vera, with ealm dstermin* 
tk»L " No mortal hand shall be intrusted with it I only 
hope it may go safe. It would be a dreadful thing if it went 
astray. Are letters very often lost. Dot, on the way ? " 

" Between St Ann's and New York ? No, my dear 
they are not And even if they were, this would be sure to 
go—could not fail to go. It is like a sign-board. I could 
read that 'Ffrench* if I were at the other end of the 
garden." 

" A large, bold hand shows decision of character," responds 
Vera, firmly ; " and decision of character I mean to have. I 
have a cramp in my fingers from making those letters so 
large and inky. You might drive me over this afternoon, 
Dot ; it is too hot and dusty for walking." 

Dora agrees, and Vera, feeling the need of relaxation after 
this severe mental strain, whistles to Nero, the house dog, 
and challenging that black monster to a race, they are soon 
tearing up and down the avenues. It is hot, she says, but 
one must have physical exercise after a prolonged course of 
writing, else the application might be injurious to one's 
health. She has read that somewhere, and means to store 
up all these scraps of useful information, neatly labelled, to 
be kept until called for. A very paragon of learning and 
wisdom, she is resolved, shall be the future Mrs. R. C. 
Ffrench. 

Four hours later the letter, big with fate, is posted, and on 
its way to New York, and the destiny of two people is 
settled for all time. 



TWM BAYS BMPOMM. Mf 




CHAPTER XVHL 

THE DAYS BJCrOSS. 

[ND now the days fly. If each one were 

hours long it would hardly be long enough, Dora 
Lightwood thinks. For Vera they fly, too, but 
then that is a way Vent's days have always had, only now 
they seem doubly winged, and each brings the eventful 
twenty-third and Captain Dick nearer. One, two, three, 
four — here is Monday and Eleanor is going. Really going, 
and Eleanor's mamma, seized at the last moment with a sec- 
ond attack of neuralgia, is unable to accompany her — unable 
to lift her tortured head from her pillow. Eleanor must go 
alone. 

" Neuralgia ! " laughs Miss Lightwood, scornfully. " Left 
her window open all night, and the sudden change to cold, 
etc. Bah I What an old liar she is I " Miss Lightwood al- 
ways makes a point of calling a spade a spade. " She is 
very well off here, and here she means to stay. Well I we 
shall see," 

So Eleanor goes alone, and is kissed good-by in her sweet' 
est way by Dora, and is driven to the station by that most 
dashing of little whips. Vera goes too, and clings to her at 
the last, tears in the brown eyes, wistful, imploring, pleading, 
in the young face. 

" Nelly ! Nelly ! how sorry I am you are going. Oh ! 
Nelly, I thought and said horrid things of you once. I am 
sorry now ; sorry, sorry 1 Forgive me, won't you, before you 
go?" 

u Thought and said horrid things of me ? Why, my pet, 
says Miss Charlton, laughing, " what had I done ? " 



t< 



168 TMM DAYS 3MF0MM. 

" Oh I I am a wretch I A little bad-tempered wretch! 
Yon refused Captain Dick" — in a whisper this, and the hot 
face hidden—" and I couldn't bear it And I hated joo~ 
there I " 

"My dear child 1 how can 70a possibly know— 19 

u 1 was in the room — you didn't see me, bat I was* and I 
£terh*ard Wasn't it awfcl ? But I didn't mean to. I told 
him about it, and he said the loveliest things of you 1 You 
are not angry, are you ? " 

" Angiy, dear? Why, no. Only you must never tell that 
you— that I " 

" I know — 1 know. Of course not And, Nelly," — she 
has taken hold of a button of Miss Charlton's jacket and is 
twisting it round and round — "you are sure — you are not 
sony now — sorry you said no, I mean ?" 

" It had to be no, Vera. It could never possibly have 
been anything else." 

'•And you would not take him now, even if he came and 
offered again ? " 

" No." 

" You are sure ? " 

"I am certain." She smiles, but blushes a little, too. 
"Why, what a little inquisitor it is t How fond yon are of 
Captain Dick." 

Ah I fond. But there is something besides that fondness 
in Vera's face, as she stands nervously twisting the button. 

44 What is it, pet ? " Eleanor asks. " By the way, I want 
you to say good-by for me to Captain Dick when he cornea. 
We are never likely to meet again." 

" Oh I Eleanor— are you not sorry ? " 

"Yes — no — yes, I suppose so. He is a gallant gentle- 
man, and I like him. Vera, you are trying to say something. 
Why, how you are blushing, child ! — and here is my button 
half off." She holds the little destructive hand " Out with 
it quick ! there is the last bell" 



TBM DAYS ABTOMM, 169 

Vent flings her arms around her neck, regardless of the 
loungers on the platform, and whispers, with a vehement 



" In nine days /am to be married to Captain Ffrench I " 

The last bell is clanging — Miss Charlton has barely time 
to rush on board. There is not another word exchanged, 
she w?.ves her hand from the window, perfectly speechless 
with surprise, and then the train steams out, and she is gone. 
The first gap is made in the Charlton summer circle. 

They drive slowly through the town, taking the post-office 
on their way. What a sleepy Sunday stillness reigns— every 
green lattice is shut on the white front of each small house, 
no one stirs abroad, the wooden pavements blister in the 
August sun. The black wharves project into the harbor, 
old, decaying, with the ceaseless wash and fret of the rip- 
pling tide, slipping in and out forever among their rotting 
planks. St. Ann's, always drowsy, lies sluggishly asleep, 
this warm, dusty, midsummer afternoon. 

A letter awaits Vera — a note, rather — in a hand she knows 
welL She tears it open in a second, and runs her eye over 
its three or four sentences. He has received hers. He is 
glad that she is glad. He will do what he can to make het 
happy. He hopes she will never regret this step. He will 
be with them by ten o'clock on Friday, the twenty-third. Dr. 
Englehart will accompany him. And he is very affection- 
ately hers, R. C. F. 

It is a disappointing little billet — it is not in the least what 
Vera expects. Such short sentences I and so few of them. 
She could do better herself! And he is used to writing let- 
ters, too — has she not seen them ? — long, learned letters, full 
of polysyllabic words that Vera could neither spell nor pro- 
nounce if it were ever so, letters that are printed in stupid 
scientific quarterlies, heavier than lead. Such a short, 
scrubby, unsatisfactory 

" And what does he mean by regretting ? " she cries oat 



I TO TOE DAYS BEFORE. 

resentfully : " as if I was ever likely to regret When 1 told 
him, too, I was delighted. I think he might rery well haw 
made it a whole page. Such a nice, long letter as I sent 
him. And the very first he has ever written to me I I must 
say n 

" No, you mustn't. Captain Ffrench is very busy Just now, 
remember," says Dora, smoothly, " and has very little time 
lor letter-writing. He will not fail on the twenty-third— that 
is the main thing.* 9 

" Fail I " repeats Vera, staring ; but Dora only laughs, and 
whips up the ponies. 

There is silence. Vera feels aggrieved, and looks it This 
is not the sort of thing she has expected at alL If this is 
what they call a love-letter, then she doesn't think much of 
love-letters. If he means to send her six mean, stingy sen- 
tences every time he writes from Honduras, he may keep 
them ! She will tell him her opinion of this effusion the 
next time they meet 

But though Captain Ffrench's first note to his bride-elect 
is as brief and non-committal as note well can be, he writes 
to his step-father, on the same subject, a sufficiently lengthy 
epistle. 

" The more I think of it," he Mrs, " the more abundantly convinced 
am I that this sacrifice is at once absurd and unnecessary. In the first 
moments of bewilderment, and overwhelmed by the tears and reproaches 
of Miss Lightwood, I was all at sea, but now I know, I feel, when it is 
too late to draw back, that this Quixotic marriage is utterly nonsensical. 
The accident of Vera* s having remained a night at Shaddeck with me 
could never spoil her future life as this marriage may — as this marriage 
must. What does she know of herself — of marriage ? She is a girl in 
years, a babe in knowledge of the world. In the time that is to come 
she may bitterly rue this union, into which accident and woman's prudery 
are driving me. Of myself I say little. In the future, whatever I caa 
do to make her happy I trust I shall do. To like her as a child is easy, 
to love her as a woman may be impossible. Who is to foretell what 
kind of woman any given girl of sixteen may make ? I b*ve no more wiafc 



THE DAYS 9EF0ME. IJl 



to sacrifice my Bit to a scrapie of propriety than other men, tmt having 

pledged myself to her sifter, at any cost to myself, I shall keep my wort. 
" During the term of my absence, it becomes a simple matter of ne- 
cessity that Vera shall remain under your care, either at Charlton with a 
competent governess, or some good school. I should naturally prefer • 
convent, as we are both Catholics. As you are one of the chief ad- 
vocates of the marriage, I have no hesitation in making this claim mpoa 
you. Vera must be your exclusive charge until jay return. When that 
return may be, it is impossible exactly to say, and if in the chapter of 
accidents I should never return at all, I appeal to your generosity to pro- 
vide for the poor child's life. That non-return would probably be the 
best thing that could befall; it would give her back her freedom and the 
average chance at least of happiness with a husband of her own choice." 

Mr. Charlton reads this letter with compressed lips and 
angry eyes. He usually passes his correspondence of late 
over to Miss Lightwood — he has got into a way of making 
her his amanuensis, but for obvious reasons he says nothing 
of this. He locks it up in his desk, and does not answer it 
So after all the headstrong, obstinate fool is going. Wife or 
no wife he will keep his word to the expedition and start for 
Honduras. Since it must be so, he might as well have gone 
free as fettered — so far as Mr. Charlton is concerned the re 
suit will be the same. He chooses Englehart and Central 
America instead of his step-father and Charlton. He must 
abide by that choice. Fortunes, as a rule, do not go begging ; 
he will force no man to be his heir. 

But he loves the lad— -oh ! he loves him, and it is hard. 
It is hard to let him go, hard to feel he may never look in 
his face again, hard to feel that his affection is unreturned. 
He covers his face with a sort of groan. He is an old man, 
he grows frail fast, he has counted on Dick as the prop of his 
last years. Now those years mist be passed alone — not even 
a wife can hold the boy back. Well I well ! at least if he 
cannot command his obedience, he can make him pay the 
penalty of his self-wilL Keep, and provide for Vera. Yea, 
he is ready enough to do that ; it wil 1 be a pleasure, a 



IT* TME DAYS 3EP0MM. 

fort, w» keep something young and bright about him, and h» 
is ready to acknowledge her claim ; but no one can fill hit 
wayward step-son's place, no one ever can or wilL 

" Has Captain Ffrench written to Mr. Charlton ? " Doia 
asks, one day, as Mr. Charlton remains moodily silent 
" He pent Vera two or three lines simply to say he would be 
here with Dr. Englehart at ten en Friday morning, but not a 
word of his future intentions. And for Vent's sake I am anx- 
ious to know whether he means to go or stay." 

44 He means to go," is the gloomy answer. 

"And Vera, sir?" 

" Vera is my care ; she remains with me, of course. She 
must have a governess, and spend the next two years in hard 
study. She will be over eighteen then, and a young woman 
— let us hope a clever and accomplished one — amiable I am 
sure she will be, and good. His absence— confound him 1 — 
will not extend over that period. Dick is a good-tempered 
fellow as ever breathed, but as pig-headed as the majority 
when he sets his mind on a thing. And he seems to consid- 
er it a question of honor here," says Mr. Charlton, trying, in 
spite of himself, to make the best of it to a third party. 

Dora sits silently, playing nervously with her watch-chain, 
which, with its essential appendage, is a recent and expensive 
present from her host 

" You need have no fears for Vera, my dear Dora," he 
goes on ; "it shall be at once my happiness and my duty to 
provide foi her. I am glad she is to remain. Charlton wQl 
be lonely enough soon, Heaven knows." 

" It it not that, sir," Dora says, and covers her face with 
her hands. "lam selfish — I wa» thinking of myself. She is 
all I have — we two are so utterly alone ; and when I go back 

to the old life and leave her here " She breaks down, 

and lifts two lovely, streaming eyes. " Oh, forgive me I " she 
sobs, " What will you think of me ? But—but " 

Mr. Charlton is moved to the depths of his genial, kindly 



TME DAYS BSFOMM. If J 

•Id heart A poor little woman in tears is always, he holds, 
a pathetic sight; a pretty little woman in tears is something 
to subjugate the universe. But he never quite knows what 
to say on these supreme occasions. 

" I have known so little pleasure, so little happiness in 
my short life," sobs Dora, behind a perfumed bit of lace and 
lawn — very well for this sort of thing, but ridiculous if taken 
in connection with a cold in the head. " It has been all 
work, work, work, since the cruel war that robbed us of every- 
thing. And now that I have known Charlton andjw, sir—"" 
Sobs choke her utterance — language fails. 

This is flattering — Mr. Charlton feels it so. His amour 
fropre has just received a mortal wound — the artless con- 
fession between the flowing tears of lovely woman is as a 
soothing salve. And she is so pretty — crying does not spoil 
Dora, nor redden the point of her pretty nose. If it did you 
may be sure Miss Lightwood would give idle tears a wide 
berth. She is so pretty, so forlorn, so young, so — so every* 
thing that can addle the brain of a good-hearted, simple- 
souled old gentleman. He rises and bends above her, 
deeply moved, and tries to take away the dampened scrap 
of handkerchief from before the pale, tear-wet face. 

" Dora 1 my dear Dora — my dear child, don't — I beg of 
you, don't Why go at all ? Charlton is a large house, and 
I am a very lonely man. Stay with your sister, stay with her 
always, stay with me. She will need you — /will need you, 
the house will need you. Stay with me a*— as my daugh- 
ter:' 

Miss Lightwood starts to her feet as if sung. Two blue, 
soft, tearful, sad, reproachful eyes look at him a moment 
" As your daughter?" murmurs a choking voice ; "and \ 

-*-in my madness, have No, no, it can never be I " And 

then she breaks from him with an inarticulate sobbing sound, 
and rushes out of the room, and upstairs, and into her own. 

" And if thai does not open his nonsensical old eyes," 



If 4 THE DAYS BEFORE. 

say* Miss Lightwood, briskly, going over to the glass and 

adjusting her front frizzes, "I will speak a little plainer 
next time." 

" And be sure it has a tail — train, I me&n — at least one 
yard long — not a finger-length less, Mrs. Jones, and make 
the waist as puffy as you can, so that I may look as if I had 
a tendency to embonpoint — which I haven't And as I am 
not to have a bustle, my sister says, I want you to fjc some 
arrangement of stiff muslin that will do instead— you under* 
stand ? But whatever else you do, make the train a — full- 
yard — long." 

Thus emphatically Miss Vera Martinez to the dressmaker. 
She stands in the middle of the room, solemnly gesticulating, 
her face wearing all the gravity — the seriousness of the 
point at issue demands. A sh^iy pile of creamy white silk 
lies near the dress in question, to which the yard-long tail is 
to be appended and is Miss Martinez's wedding robe. 

"And do not fail us on Thursday afternoon/' says a 
second voice, sharp, and a trifle imperious ; " the — the din- 
ner-party occurs on Friday, and there must not be the 
slightest delay, Mrs. Jones. We will drive over about four 
on Thursday, and fetch it away." 

" There shall be no delay, Miss Lightwood, I never fail 
my customers, and I have no other work just now." , 

"If this — party dress, is a success you shall have an 
abundance of work in future, Mrs. Jones — I can promise you 
that," says Miss LigLtwood, graciously, drawing on her gloves. 
" Come, Vera. Do not forget my instructions about th« 
point-lace trimming, Mrs. Jones." 

" And do not forget my instructions aoout the train, Mrs, 
Jones," says the more youthful voice, " a yard lrag. Mind 
that!" 

She holds up an admonitory fitter. 

"One — yard— long 1" she reiterates, and then goes aftv 
sister out to where the pony-phaeton stands. 



THE DAYS BEFORE. 175 

" And I hope to goodness she wont make a botch of it,* 
says Dora, taking the reins. " Pat cot your faith in country 
dressmakers. If there only had been time to order it from 
Madame Le Bran's, w with a regretful sigh. 

" And I hope to goodness she wont shorten it behind, 
says Vera. " The rest may go ; but, fit or no fit, a train to 
it I most have. To think of a white silk dress like wrinkled 
skins on scalded milk, as somebody says somewhere, with a 
train trailing a full yard behind I " says Vera, in a sort of 
solemn rapture. 

" Only four days now — how they do fly t I told Harriet 
before I came out, Vera." 

" Yes ? " says Vera, giving a smart slap to a mosquito 
mat alights on her nose ; * and what did she say ? Did she 
snap your head off? " 

Harriet is the Charlton househeeper, a maiden lady of 
uncertain age and temper, and not a person to have house- 
hold secrets from. 

" Not exactly. She was snappish, though, as usual, and 
grumbled about the shortness of the time, and the length of 
the coming breakfast Vera, I shall send that old maid 
about her business one of these days." 

" You will I " says Vera. " Upon my word I Yon had 
better wait until Mr. Charlton can fill her place, I think." 

"Mr. Charlton has filled her place, my dear." 

" Has he ? Who is the new one ? I feel interested natu- 
rally — a housekeeper can make things dreadfully unpleasant 
when she likes. Another old maid ? " 

" No— o — not exactly — getting along though. The new 
housekeeper will be a married lady, Vera," says Dora, and 
laughs. " I think you will like her. It was I who recom- 
mended her to Mr. Charlton'r notice. But it is a secret yet 
—you are not to say a word to him pr any one." 

" When is she coming ? " 

' Well— that is not quke iecided either. Bat this fad 



ip6 ram jbum befoul 

some time, for certain. I think Harriet will not be the only 
old woman in Charlton her advent will astonish." Don 
laughs again at some inward joke* 

"I wonder when Mrs. Charlton means to go?" says 
Vera, appositely enough. 

" Not a day sooner than she is obliged. Nasty old thing 
— she is exactly like an over-fed tabby cat. The idea of her 
pretending neuralgia, and Mr. Charlton taking it in good 
faith, until I undeceived him. I mean to tell her on Thurs- 
day evening." 

" About the housekeeper ? " 

"No; about your wedding. How furious she will be, 
and how she will try to hide it, and what a death's-head 
stare and smile she will give me. I expect to enjoy it She 
made so sure of getting that poor Dick for a son-in-law. By 
the way, have you answered his letter, Vera ? " 

" I would not demean myself by answering such a scrubby 
little affair," answers Vera, with dignity. "I never wM 
write to him if he sends me such notes from Honduras, and 
so I mean to tell him. Here we are, and there is Mr. 
Charlton waiting for us." 

Mr. Charlton is always waiting for diem of late, for Dora, 
at least, and within the last two days seems to have ascended 
into the rosy realms of bliss. Perhaps it is the prospect of a 
wedding that brightens him, perhaps it is the joy of speedy 
emancipation from the iron rule of Harriet — at all events 
the change is there. And Mrs. Charlton at her window, 
like an elderly Sister Anne on her watch-tower, glooms down 
upon them, and has a vague feeling that something is going 
on from which she is excluded Mr. Charlton is as plastic 
wax in the hands of Dora Lightwood ; there is no vagueness 
about that, at least, and his infatuation bodes ill for her pro- 
longed stay at Charlton. 

One, two, three — the bright days fly. It is Thursday, and 
the ere of the wedding. Vera gets op early, bat that is on* 



THE DAYS BEFOUL \fl 

of Vera's virtues. To-morrow Captain Dick will come — to- 
morrow is her wedding-day — to-morrow she will see him, 
speak to him, belong to him her whole life long. The 
thought is rapturous. And how lucky the weather is fine- 
quite "queen's weather" — not a cloud in the sky. Vera 
feels it would go near to break her heart to be married in a 
rain-storm. Friday is an ominous day, an unfashionable 
day, an out-of-the-way sort of day to be married on. Cap- 
tain Dick ought to have known better than to select it, but 
men are dreadfully obtuse about matrimonial matters. So 
that the priest, and the bride, and the bridegroom are there, 
they actually seem to think other things secondary. Vera's 
state is not one of unalloyed bliss. Captain Dick is going 
away ; it may rain ; there is never any trusting the weather 
at picnics or weddings. And she has her doubts about that 
train; if Mrs. Jones, possessed by some spirit malignant, 
should curtail it Such things have been known. Harriet, 
too, is still grumbling about the breakfast No change in her 
own appearance has taken place. Bones and sallowness 
are precisely as they were ; her hair has not grown percep- 
tibly longer ; her form has not assumed any observable re- 
dundancy ; she is neither handsomer, taller, plumper, wiser 
than if to-morrow were not her wedding-day. She is afraid, 
seriously afraid, Captain Dick may be disappointed. He 
must have seen very many pretty women lately. She knows 
what sort of faces are to be seen on the streets of New 
York ; it will be a crushing thing if he looks disappointed. 
Vera's musings run something in this way. Of the real 
seriousness, of the awful life-long nature of the step she is 
taking, she thinks not at all. She is to be married to Cap- 
tain Dick ; she likes that She would like to go wandering 
with him over the world — up among the icebergs, down 
among the cocoa-nut groves, to " Sail the seas over," to see 
foreign parts, to be wrecked with him on desert islands, and 
\kv* in nice little huts, and eat breadfruit and yams (Vera 



V 



178 +BE DAYS BEFORE. 



rather confounds this fruit with small sugar-cured portions 
of pig, hung up in yellow bags outside of groceries) and 
dried grapes, and bring up goats in the way they should go, 
and have a lovely time all by themselves, in some emerald 
isle of the Pacific 

Vague, foolish, romantic, nonsensical, are all Vera's 
dreams; but always, clear and bright, strong, noble, tall, 
upright, handsome, peerless, her hero stands, the central 
figure. Go where she will, Vera knows she will never set 
his like. 

Breakfast time comes ; luncheon comes ; afternoon comes 
Harriet's brow is lowering ; Mr. Charlton looks fidgety and 
nervous; Vera's pulses thrill and flutter. Dora alone is 
calm, intrepid, cool of head, steady of pulse, clear of eye, 
equal to any fate. No one of the household knows except 
the aforesaid Harriet, whose gloomy forte is secrecy. No 
one outside the household knows, except Father Darner, 
pastor of the little white church of the Assumption, on the 
hill, and with him silence is duty. Dora professes no relig 
ion whatever in the frankest manner, but Vera is a Cuban, 
and a devout little daughter of Mother Church, and jealously 
insists on having her nuptial mass, and all the bridal bless- 
ings Father Darner can bestow. Nothing further has been 
heard from the bridegroom, but he will not fail — no one hai 
ever known the ex-cavalry captain to fail at the post of duty 
or danger. This is both. 

At four, precisely, the pony phaeton draws up in front of 
Mrs. Jones' front door. The dress is finished, the train— 
Vera gives one terrified glance that changes slowly to ec- 
stasy as it is spread out before her — it is every inch the 
train. She draws a long breath of relief and sits down on a 
chair, as though this realization of all the dreams of her life 
was too much for her. 

" It has preyed on my mind," she says, faintly, " it has 
preyed on my mind to that extent — Dot, you know I 



TME DAYS BEFORE. If} 

couldn't take half my lunch this noon. I felt sore it would 
be short." 

It is not short — it is not a misfit ; it satisfies even Misi 
Lightwood. It is packed and put in the carriage, and then 
they sweep through St. Ann's to make a few last purchases. 
When she drives along these streets next, Vera thinks, it will 
be as Mrs. Captain Ffrench — Mrs. R. C. Ffirench— Mrs 
Veronica Mary Martinez Ffrench — Mrs. Dick Ffrench — 
Vera Ffrench. 

She has rung the changes on this most exquisite cogno- 
men over and over again. She has written it in every pos- 
sible and impossible style of chirography some five hundred 
times ; she has repeated it aloud, to hear how it sounds. 
To-morrow by this time she will have ceased to be Vera 
Martinez and become Vera Ffrench ; and Captain Dick — 
her husband? — this time to-morrow will be back in New York, 
and the long, long separation will have begun. He will 
stay with them but a few hours — has he not said so ? — and 
the next day he sails. Ah 1 no fear of her foigetting that 
Through all the foolishness, through all the childishness, 
through all the nonsense, that fact if ever present to sadden 
and subdue. He is going away. 

An hour later, Mrs. Charlton, on her way upstairs, is way- 
laid by Miss Lightwood, a smile on her lip, and malice pre- 
pense in her eye. 

" Come into Vera's room a moment, will you, pleate, Mrs. 
Charlton ? I have something to show you." 

Mrs. Charlton eyes her enemy distrustfully. An armed 
neutrality obtains at present, but open hostilities are immi- 
nent at any moment between these conflicting forces. 

"Something ro show me, Miss Lightwood——" she if 
stiffly beginning, but Dora cuts in : 

" Oh, come 1 " she says, airily ; " I will not detain you a 
moment And I think it will surprise even you" 

Curiosity has its full share in Mrs. Charlton ; it issoongef 



Ifc TMM JUYS MEFOMM. 

even than her hearty desire to disoblige Ifin Ughl wOodL 

She follow! suspiciously. 

" This way/ 9 Dora says, and leads on into het own deep* 
ing-room. 

And then Indeed Mrs. Charlton starts, stares, is dumb. 
For before the glass stands Vera — is it Vera ? — that grace- 
ful figure in trailing white silk, silk rich enough to " stand 
alone," with the cloud of illusion on its head and dropping 
to the carpet, and that virginal orange crown ? Around the 
slim neck is a rope of pearls fit for a Russian princess, in 
the small ears pearls, on the slender hands glittering gems, 
on the taper feet white satin shoes. It is Vera; but a 
transfigured Vera. Dress does make a difference. In 
sweeping white silk and pearls, it is a very different girl from 
the romp in short dresses who races, flushed and breathless, 
with Nero up and down the Charlton woods. 

" What— what is it ? " she asks. 

"It is Vera's wedding-dress," says Dora, and her blue 
eyes go like two dagger-points through her enemy's corslet ; 
44 and to-morrow is Vera's wedding-day 1 " 

Mrs. Charlton can by no possibility stare harder than she 
is staring already — if she could there is no doubt but that 
at this announcement her eyes would drop from their 
orbits. 

" Her— wedding— day I " 

44 Her wedding-day my dear> Mrs. Charlton. She has 
stolen a march on us older and wiser ones. Only sixteen— 
is it not a shame? but Captain Ffrench would have it 
And the dress — is it not exquisite ? And those pearls, look 
at them, Mrs. Charlton, nearer please — you are short-sighted 
like myself— the finest set in Tiffany's. Are they not fit fat 
a duchess ? And this point — but perhaps you are not a 
judge of point Unless one is in the profession, as I am, 
one is apt to see so little of real point lace. The veil is only 
illusion — there was no time to import a bridal veil. Does 



TBE DAYS BMFCRE. lit 

not white become her, gypsy though she is ? Turn tound 
Vera, and let Mrs. Charlton see the train — perfect, is it not ? '* 

Vera slowly revolves like a great wax-work. Through the 
veil she looks almost ethereal — so slight, so white, so misty. 

" Married to-morrow 1 " Mrs. Charlton can but just gasp. 

"Sudden, isn't it? but he is obliged to go the next day ; 
and as I say, he would have it It is by his wish, too, that 
we have not told you— or any one," after a malicious pause. 

" Now that your horrid neuralgia is better— oh ! what an 
inconvenient thing is that neuralgia ! you will be able to 
come with us to church. The marriage is to take place at 
the Assumption at eleven, with a mass and the whole nup- 
tial ritual of the Catholic Church. Then we return to a <&- 
j tuner, and after that, I regret to say, poor Captain Ffrench 
is obliged to leave us. That tiresome expedition you know, 
and he is such a man of honor that he would not on any 
account go from his word." 

Mrs. Charlton is beginning to recover. The suddenness 
of the blow has partially stunned her, but now she draws 
her breath, and looks at her daring, triumphant, malicious 
little foe. 

" A man of honor ? " she repeats ; " so it seems, and the 
greatest fool under heaven 1 Do you really mean to tell me 
that " 

" Vera dear, we will leave you," says Dora sweetly. * Be 
very careful not to rumple the things taking them off. Now 
if you are ready, Mrs. Charlton " 

She has her out of the room and into the hall, before Mrs. 
Charlton actually knows what she is about Then Dora 
laces her swiftly, fiercely. 

" If you say one word before Vera, you will repent it to 
the last day of your life," she exclaims, and there is some- 
thing so wicked in her eyes that the elder woman recoils 
The next moment she is gone — rustling down the staircase, 
and cowed and vanquished Mrs. Charlton goes to her room 



1 82 CAPTAIN DICK'S iTWDDINS. 

Vent does not descend to dinner— Dora orders her ra ' 

tions to the maiden bower. Mr. Charlton, more and more 
nervous as the dreaded hour draws near, sits silent and out 
of sorts. Mrs. Charlton is glum and speechless. Dora is i 

cheerful and chatty, but nothing can lift the ante-nuptial 
gloom. In her heart she too is nervous, and worried, and 
anxious to have it all over. It is such an abnormal sort of 
wedding and even men of honor may faiL Something may 
happen, Dr. Englehart may pooh-pooh him out of it — she 
will not breathe freely until half-past eleven to-morrow. By 
that time, if all goes well 

Dinner proceeds, dessert ends, there is the drawing-room, 
more silence, and vague despondency. Darkness falls, the 
summer night lies over the world, and restless and worried 
Dora goes out under the whispering trees, and looks up at 
her sister's windows. 

"And if all does go well I hope she may be happy," she 
says with a touch of vague fear and compunction, " poor lit- 
tle Vera." 



CHAPTER XDL 

CAPTAIN DICK'S WKDDIMO. 

|NCE more the sun has risen, and shines foe Xhm 
last time in all the days of its shining on Vera 
Martinez. For when it reaches the zenith yonder, 
there will be no Vera Martinez any more, but in her place 
Vera Ffrench, the bride. She has not a very bride-like look 
fust at this moment, standing by the window, blinking up 
anxiously at the rising luminary, to make quite sure there 
are no ominous mare J tails in the horizon, with a prim 




CAPTAIN DICK'S WEDDING. iSj 

dressing-gown thrown around her, and her short crop of 
boyish black curls standing up on end. It is about five, and 
she has just got up, amazed, and a trifle disgusted with her- 
self to find she has slept like a top all night " I don't ex- 
pect to sleep a wink until morning," she had said solemnly 
the last thing to her sister, and lo I before the curly head 
was fairly on the pillow, deceitful slumber stole upon her, 
and claimed her for its own. After all, how little of a hero- 
ine she is — she sighs as she thinks of it ; heroines alway* 
keep awake, and sit by their casements the night before they 
are married. Vera has not yet attained the age or exp» 
rience that gives us " white nights " — those long, blank, aw- 
ful, sleepless hours of darkness, when the rest of creation 
snores, and we alone lie with aching eyeballs, feverish, toss- 
ing, nervous, cross, wondering if the lagging day will ever 
dawn. It is her wedding — her wedding-day 1 Now that it 
is here she cannot quite realize it It means something 
more than she knows of surely, else why do all girls, hero- 
ines or not, look upon it as the one grand epoch of then 
lives, the pivot upon which their whole future existence is to 
turn. 

" I am such a little fool, 9 the girl thinks, despondently, 
" I don't know anything. I wonder what Captain Dick can 
see in me. I am not fit to be anybody's wife, much less his. 
He is so learned, so clever, so good, he knows so much — 
what would he say if he knew I never did a sum in vulgar 
fractions in my life, and couldn't parse two sentences to 
save me. I think, after all, I am glad he is going away ; it 
will give me a chance to get over being such an awful dunce. 
At least I am not glad, and two years is a dreadful time, 

but still Oh 1 Dot, isn't it just the heavenliest morning; 

after all 1 " 

" After all ? " repeats Dora, coming in. " Who ever es 
pected it was going to be anything else? Good-morning, 
Mrs. Ffrench-— how did you sleep ? ' 



1*4 CAPTAIN DICK'S WEDDING. 

Vera acknowledges shame-facedly that she misj shpi 
better in her life, and inquires the time. 

" Nearly six," Dora says, looking at her pretty watch. 
You must not think of dressing before ten. As your hair 
looks rather better uncombed than combed, your toilet need 
not take long. Doing one's hair is always the worst. You 
shall have breakfast up here. I will breakfast with you if 
you like — then you can take your bath, and after that I will 
dress you. As we do not start for church until nearly eleven 
there is time and to spare." 

"I wish I could go out," says Vera, looking wistfully 
down to where Nero stands on the lawn, looking wistfully 
up, and wondering why his mistress does not come for her 
matutinal game of romps ; " and look at poor Nero. I de- 
clare if he isn't watching my window. Just one race, Dot- 
no one need know/' 

But Dora will not hear of it Vera is to understand that 
her romping days are over. " Respectable married women 
(by the way, I wonder why married women are always stig- 
matized respectable) do not as a rule get up at five in the 
morning, and go scampering over the country with the 
house-dog. We are going to change all that, and for the 
time to come Mrs. R. C. Ffrench is to behave herstlf" 
Then Dora goe% for she has very much to do this morning, 
and hides an anxious heart under her tight French corsets. 
There is the sour and surly Harriet to conciliate, if she can , 
there is Mrs. Charlton to keep an eye on, for Mrs. Charlton 
looked dangerous last night ; there is Mr. Charlton to string 
up to concert pitch, and be put in a proper frame of mind 
to meet this contumacious step-son. Vera must be kept 
prisoner in her room, partly because it is the proper thing to 
do, and partly because there is no trusting her in the com* 
pany of Mrs. Charlton. Impossible to tell what that vicious 
old harridan may not venomously flash out, and if Vera only 
knows the truth, or half the truth, silly, and childish, and 



CAPTAIN DICK'S WEDDING. iftf 

uninformed as fhe is, Dora knows that all hope of a wedding 
to-day will be at an end. Vera is woman enough for this, 
although she has hardly outgrown hoops and skipping-rope% 
therefore Dora locks her sister coolly in her chamber, and 
carries off the key. After half-past eleven Mrs. Charlton 
may say what she pleases, the ceremony once safely over, 
and though she talks until crack o' doom, she will not talk 
the ring off Vera Ffrench's finger. 

Breakfast comes. Mrs. Charlton comes. Dangerous I — 
no need to look twice to see that If it is in her power to 
do mischief to-day, she will do it. Dora stands for a second 
and eyes her coolly, steadily, unflinchingly; the elder woman 
returns the gaze with eyes that gleam like dull stones. It 
is the look of two well-matched duellists just before en garde 
is cried. So far Miss Lightwood has had the best of it, but 
the wheel goes round, and she who is on top at nine in the 
morning may be at the bottom by nine at night Mri. 
Charlton smiles, a slow, cruel, unsmiling smile. 

" Is not our bride coming to breakfast, Dora, my dear,* 
she asks. 

" Brides generally breakfast in their own room, Mrs. 
Charlton. When one has had nothing to do with brides and 
bridals for half a century, one naturally forgets. You ac- 
company us to church, I suppose ? " 

" I will be in at the death, my dear. Hal ha 1 Eleven I 
think you said? My poor old gray silk will have to do. 
And the happy man" — another spectral ha I ha 1 here — "at 
what hour are we to look for him ?" 

" It is not necessary that you should look for him at any 
hour, Mrs. Charlton. Pray don't give yourself that trouble. 
Young men are so ungrateful, and do so cordially hate to 
have well-meaning, elderly ladies look out for them. Gtaod- 
moraing, Mr. Charlton. We are before you, you sen. I 
hope you are feeling quite well, sir ?" 

M Pretty well, my dear, pretty well," Mr. Charlton 



186 CAPTAIN D*CX S WEDDING. 

Hurriedly. * Good-morning, ma'am. Tea this morninft 
Dora, my dear ; coffee makes my hand shaky. How is the 
neuralgia, Mrs. Charlton?" 

" The neuralgia is very much better, Mr. Charlton, I 
trust you feel no twinges of your old enemy, the gout ? It 
would be such a pity if you could not go to church this 
morning and give away the bride. Our dear Miss Light- 
wood, who can do almost anything, can hardly do toat. You 
see I am informed of the happy event The notice was 
#nort, but among relatives, and for so strictly private an 
affair, longer was not needed. And poor Captain Ffirench 
is really going to pay the penalty of that rash child's impru- 
dence after all 1 Dear 1 dear 1 dear I " 

" How grateful Captain Ffrench would be for your sympa- 
thy, to be sure 1 " says Dora, mockingly. " Such a pity he 
is not here to hear it I So great a favorite as you are of his, 
too 1 I should think, now, you are the sort of elderly lady 
young men would always be fond o£ And that reminds me. 
Do you happen to know a young gentleman by the name of 
Ernest, Mrs. Charlton ? " 

Mrs. Charlton looks across at her, murder in her eye. 
It is vulgar, it is lowering herself in the eyes of her host, 
Dora feels, this war of words, but for the life of her she can- 
not help hitting back. 

" I have known a young gentleman by the name of Ernest, 
Miss Lightwood. May I ask his other name ? " 

But Dora only smiles— a smile that has a volume of mean* 
ing. 

"He is a very dear friend of Nelly's, is he not?" she 
asks. " I wonder why he did not come to the house when 
hz called upon he' instead of " 

Mrs. Charlton lays down her knife and fork, and her fact 
turns to a leaden lividness. 

" But, there t " cries Dora ; " perhaps 1 am indiscreet. 1 
have no business to betray poor, dear Nelly s secrets. No 



CAPTAIN DICK'S W&DDIVG. iSf 

Ins. Charlton, I positively decline to say another word. 
My overhearing was purest accident I came upon then 
jne night by chance. Only" — and here she looks steadily 
across at the furious face before her — " I wouldn't say too 
much about Vera's imprudence if I were you. Vera is a 
child of sixteen, and her imprudence was unpremeditated. 
If she were three and twenty, and made and kept assignations 
by night and by stealth down there in the grounds with clan- 
destine lovers, it would be another thing. Mr. Charlton, I 
really must beg your pardon for this. It is in atrocious taste, 
I know, and makes you horribly uncomfortable, but it is 
forced upon me. I wish to say no more — if I am permitted! 
to keep my own counsel." 

She rises abruptly, and quits the room, and Mr. Charlton, 
with a hastily muttered apology, and in abject terror, follows 
her example. And if Mrs. Charlton could drop an ounce or 
so of prussic acid in the wine Miss Lightwood expects to 
drink when next she sits at table, she has all the good will 
in the world at this moment to do it 

There is no more time for recrimination j it is half-past 
nine. Dora hastens up to make her own toilet, and makes it 
more expeditiously than she ever dressed en grand* Un%u 
before. After all it is simple — a pale pink silk, an elaborate 
coiffure, with orange flowers and pale roses. Her resolute 
little hands shake as she fastens buttons and hair-pins. Her 
encounter with her enemy has excited her ; she has given 
end expects no quarter. If the old wretch waylays Dick 

Ffrench, akd gets him all to herself for ten minutes • 

Dora sets her teeth. Let her try it I Ffrench is not the 
man to listen to innuendoes ; Dora knows that from mor« 
tifying experience ; his rebuff will be short and curt enough. 
It is Vera she is afraid of. Vc/a must not be left a moment 
unguarded until all is over. 

Vera is roaming about hw room, restless, fiigety, growing 
Vverish and excited in torn. How slowly the moments drag. 



1 88 CAPTAIN 3/CJTS WEDDING. 

She is surprised to find the cannot «at Sleep has been h«f 
faithful friend, bat appetite has deserted her. What does 
Dot mean by locking her up ? She is not going to run 
away. What did Mrs. Charlton mean by calling Captain 
Dick a fool yesterday ? — " the greatest fool under heaven 1 ' 
Was it because he was going to marry her t Dot says it is 
pure spite, and perhaps it is ; she certainly did want him for 
Eleanor. How odd and queer it will seem to meet Captain 
Dick now. Her heart beats at the thought of it She never 
felt shy of him before, but she turns hot and uncomfortable 
now at the idea. 

Dora comes at last, and dressing begins. Vera watches 
her with interest, wondering to see how pale she is, and how 
excited her eyes look. This too ends, and it is Vera's turn. 
Dora does everything. With deft, skilled fingers she makes 
the most of the curly crop, and the soft, shining rings lie 
close about the small, shapely head. The trained white silk 
is on, and buttoned up ; a bouquet of sweet white blossoms, 
all dewy and fresh, is fastened in the corsage ; the pearls are 
clasped, those lovely moonlight " congealed tears ; " the ear- 
rings are going in, when " low on the sand, and loud on the 
stone," there comes the quick crash of carriage wheels. 

Dora stops in her work ; Vera seizes the table, and for 
one giddy, strange moment, the room, the whole world, 
swims round in mist She does not know why, but it gives 
her a shock, a sharp, blinding shock, and every pulse seems 
to stop beating. 

" Here they are," cries Dora triumphantly ; " here is Dr. 
Englehart, and here is Richard. Ffrench. Vera, come and 
peep." 

But Vera does not stir. Wondering, Dora turns, and sees 
her all in a second gone deathly white. 

" Good heavens I she is going to faint 1 Why, yon shock 
tag little idiot I Here, drink this 1 What on earth is ths 
matter with you ? " 



CAPTAIN D PCX'S WKDDINS. l8p 



* I— don't— know. It was so sudden. Oh I Don, I 
<Wr if he it glad" 

"Glad?" 

" Glad — happy that it is hk wedding-day. Oh ! I 
afraid, I am afraid 1 Now that it if here — I don't know why, 
it seems so strange, so unreal, so awful! Are you sure—* 
«ure, mind — that there is no mistake, that he really and 
truly wants me to marry him ? " 

Dora stares at her, amaze, anger, consternation in her 
face. 

"Vera," she says, " I always knew you were a little fool, 
bat that you were suck a little fool, I never knew until to- 
day. Why, you unparalleled goose, did you not get his letter ? 
has Mr. Charlton not talked to you ? is he not here now? 
And yet to go at the last moment " 

" I won't say another word," Vera says, humbly. "Dot, 
how does he look ? " 

" Oh 1 — like an unfledged arch-angel of course 1 big and 
brown, and solemn as an owl I foresee we are to have a 
deadly — lively wedding — Mrs. Charlton for the tUe de mart) 
and the bridegroom for the marble guest Now draw on 
your gloves, and let as go down. There is Mr. Charlton 
tapping at the door, and it is ten minutes of eleven." 

" Shall — shall I not see him except before everybody ? " 
stammers Vera. Her hands feel cold and shaky, her voice 
trembles, she forgets even to look at the glass. 

" No ! " sharply. " What need ? you have all the rest d 
youi life to look at him. Whatever you want to say mutt 
keep until after he comes back from Honduras. Here, come 
on, I don't know what makes me so nervous this morning. 
Weddings are always nervous sort of things I suppose. 
Come." 

Mr. Charlton is waiting, he draws the gloved hand of the 
little brown bride through his arm, with a reassuring smile 
And thus they are down-stairs— -Vera feels that she is walk* 



I9> CAPTAIN 3ICJTS WEDDING. 

mg in her sleep — and in the drawing-room, where two 
tlemen stand. A mist is before her eyes, she clings fast to 
the protecting arm, and through that mist sees her hero ap» 
proach. She does not look up, in all her bright life she has 
never felt so shy, and frightened, and queer — the beating of 
her heart seems alone enough to stifle her. One desire, one 
wild, desperate, desire, she is conscious of — to run away from 
them all, and never stop until she reaches New York. A 
smile is breaking up the gravity of Captain Dick's face — he 
holds out his hand. 

" Vera I " he says. At his voice it all clears away, and she 
looks up. It is the old pleasant, half quizzical look, she 
knows so well, and it is the dear, handsome, familiar, smiling 
lace that bends down. She has no time to speak, for Mr. 
Charlton is introducing Dr. Englehart, who looks at her with 
keen, steely, searching eyes. The keen, steely glance ends 
in a smile, half-puzzled, half-amused, with an underlying 
touch of sarcasm, and then he makes a courtly bow. Then 
he is presented to Dora, then to Mrs. Charlton, and then- 
still in a somnambulistic state, Vera finds herself in the car- 
riage and on the way to church. Not a word has been 
exchanged between her and Captain Dick ; he has spoken 
her name, given her a friendly look, and a warm hand-clasp, 
and is following after. Mr. Charlton, by her side, is recalling, 
in a perturbed way, that Dora and Mrs. Charlton are shut up 
together, and he wonders helplessly if they will tight If it 
ever comes to blows, Mrs. Charlton will have the best of it 1 
Now they are whirling through St Ann's, in a cloud of white 
dust, that necessitates closed windows, and more slowly up 
the sloping hill, crowned with a humble little wooden church, 
the " sign of hope to man " glittering from the spire. Now 
they have ttopped — not a creature is to be seen, and now 
they are out and going up the nave, and the candles are lit 
on the altar, and in a moment Father Darner appears, vested 
with a little white and red acolyte following. Oh J how 



CAPTAIN DICK'S WEDDING. IJU 

strange, how solemn it all is I She trembles, she is cold and 
white, her eyes rest on the priest with a dilated, unnatural 
look. " Richard, wilt thou take Veronica, here present, for 
thy lawful wife, according to the rite of our holy Mother, the 
church ? " She. turns upon him a startled glance — if he were 
to respond, " No, father — certainly not," it would not sur- 
prise her in the least But he answers instead, " I will," 
and then Father Darner turns to her, and asks the same, 
and Dora has to give her an unseen poke before she remem- 
bers it is her turn to say " I will" And then her long five- 
button glove is drawn ott, and Mr. Charlton gives her away, 
and with her hand clasped fast in his, Richard Ffrench's deep 
voice is saying : 

" I, Richard, take thee, Veronica, to be my wedded wife, 
to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for 
worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, till 
death do us part, if holy church will it permit ; and thereto I 
plight thee my troth." 

And now the ring is blessed, and on, and Father Darner is 
reading a long Latin prayer, and once, before it ends, she 
steals a glance at the bridegroom. How grave he is — but 
beyond that earnest gravity she can read nothing. He has 
taken her, she him— oh 1 how gladly — a thousand, thousand 
times, for life and death, and beyond death if she mayl 
Her heart is full of love, of joy, of thankfulness. In all the 
world there is no one like him, and he is hers, her very own 
for all time 1 The last blessing is given — it is all over, they 
are man and wife. Some thought brings a sudden rush of 
tears to her eyes; she lifts them to his, and meets the 
strangest glance in return 1 She does not understand it — is it 
sorrow— is it passionate regret? Surely not — it passes in 
that glance, and they are in the vestry, signing the register, 
and Dot has kissed her with shining, triumphal t eye^ and 
Father Darner has shaken hands smilingly, and wished her a 
long and happy married life. He has been invited to the 



19* CAPTAIN DTCJTS fTKDDIifO. 

wedding feast, bat duty calls him elsewhere and he cannot 
come. And this, too, is over, and they are oat of die church 
and back in the carriages, and it is her husband who is be* 
side her. They flash back over the same dusty road, the 
same sleepy streets— the world is the same, yet everything is 
changed She does not speak, she is afraid to speak, afraid 
of him as he sits here, so silent, so thoughtful, so changed. 
What is he thinking of? and how little is he like her Captain 
Dick I He was never grave, and mute, and pre-occapied 
like this. They are actually half-way home before he speaks 
one word. Then he takes the little dark hand, the left, and 
looks at the shining hoop. 

" It is the smallest I could get, but it is too large, Vera. 
What a pretty little hand you have — I never noticed before. 
So childish a hand, too, to wear a wedding ring I " 

Is it a sigh she hears, a sigh smothered ? She looks op 
quickly, he is smiling, but only his mouth, his eyes look 
grave. 

" You are not worry?" she says, wistfully. 

* Sorry, dear ? Why should I be ? I was always fond of 
my little Vera. Have you been talking to Mr. Charlton 1 
Has he told you of our arrangements ? " 

" I am to stay, and go to school, or have a governess. I 
seed it surely," Vera answers, slowly. " I mean to study 
very hard, Captain Dick, so that you may not be ashamed 
af me when — when you come back." 

" I could never be ashamed of you. All the same, study 
hard — you bays four good years yet before you are a 



woman.' 9 



" Are you going to be away four years ? " she asks, a little 
tremor in the shy voice, a startled glance in the brown eyes 
— " four long years ? n 

" Who knows ? " he says, with an impatient sigh, and die 
eyes that look away from her are full of pain. "Not L 
Very likely not, but in any case you are to write to me. re- 



captain Mara weddm* ifls 

ib«r— that is an old compact yon know, little Vera, and 
whenever I chance to be near a post town, I will drop 70a a 
line. Grow up, study hard, write me long letters, be as 
happy as a queen — that is to be the programme nntQ my 
return," 

"And then 9 n the dark, solemn uplifted eyes ask. Bu 
she answers not, she does not get on with Captain Dick to- 
day. That odd, unpleasant feeling of shyness will not be 
shaken off, Why is his tone so serious ? Why have his eyes 
that sad, dark, troubled look, a dreamy far away look too, as 
if they saw ever so far 0$ beyond and above her poor little 
schoolgirl life. She has never before felt so utterly apart 
from him, so nearly afraid of him, so little at her ease with him, 
as on this morning that has made her his wife. They have 
taken scores of ttoe-d-t&te drives before, and their happy young 
laughter has rung out in unison; but Captain Dick looks at 
this moment as if he had never laughed in his life, and nevei 
meant to begin. Does the marriage ceremony affect all 
gentlemen in this unpleasant manner ? For the first time in 
her life, she wishes the drive with Captain Dick would come 
to an end. She has her wish, they are going up the avenue, 
they are at the door. He springs out, hands her down, and 
draws her gloved hand under his arm. 

"My wife 1 " he says, and for the first time the old smile 
flask es forth for a second. " That has an odd scund, has k 
not, DofiaVera?" 



104 *afftJOTIM£. 




P0ST-VU7TIAL. 

|A1LRIET of the flat figure and was* temper has at 
least the merit of being competent to the occasion, 
and the breakfast that awaits the bridal party is 
above reproach. Bat neither the appetite nor the spirits ot 
the company do any sort of justice to it A cloud hangs over 
the festive board, and though the feast is set, and the guests 
have met, there is little eaten and less said. Mr. Charlton, for 
the first time in his hospitable life, at the head of his own board, 
is neither social nor genial — his brows are knit, his glance it 
gloomy, his mouth looks stern. The bridegroom retains the 
silence and gravity that have wrapped fcira as a mantle since 
his coming. Once or twice, it is true, he makes an effort to 
rally, but it is so palpably an effort that it is rather a relief 
when he relapses. Mrs. Charlton does not speak one sin- 
gle word, except when once or twice directly addressed by 
courteous Dr. Englehart — no one else has the courage to 
attempt it It would seem as though she had entered into a 
compact with herself to remain dead silent until an opportu- 
nity occurs of speaking fatally to the purpose. At least this 
is what Dora thinks — Dora watching her furtively and inces* 
santly, and determined to balk her, if human vigilance can 
do it It is up-hill work for Miss Lightwood ; she is the 
only leaven to lighten the whole mass, and she comes up to 
time nobly, and does her best. The one wedding-guest 
seconds her efforts, thinking that in all his experience of 
wedding-breakfasts, this one stands dismally alone. As for 
the poor, little bewildered bride, a great vague terror is tak- 
ing possession of her. Something is wrong, something is 



ebnonnal and out of the common, something !■ die matter 
with everybody. Why does Captain Dick look like that, 
and so very unlike himself? Why is he so quiet, so de* 
pressed ? What does it all mean ? If he really wished to 
marry her, what business has he to look unhappy about it ? 
and if he did not wish to marry her why has he done it ? 
Oh ! if she were not so stupid, so ignorant, so young I 
What is the matter with them all ? People drink toasts, and 
make speeches at wedding-breakfasts, she has always under- 
stood, but no one does it here. Once, Dr. Englehart, with a 
kindly smile at the pale, startled face, proposes health and 
happiness to the bride, and Captain Dick responds. But it 
is only a flash in the pan, and the cloud settles again. A 
slow smile, a slow, cruel, " crawling " sort of smile, as Dora 
names it, actually crosses the grim (ace of Mrs. Charlton. 
The deadly oppression that hangs oyer the party is as u nuts " 
to her, in her present venomous mood. 

It ends at last, just as Vera is beginning to stifle, and 
mere is an adjournment to the drawing-room. And then, 
for the first time since his arrival, Mr. Charlton goes up to 
his step-son, looks him in the face, and addresses him. 

u I wish you to come with me to my study for a moment^ 
Captain Ffrench," he says, stiffly ; " I will not detain yoo 
but a very brief time." 

In all die years he has borne it, Mr. Charlton has never 
called him by his military title before. Dick reddens now, 
but he also smiles slightly. 

" I am at your service, governor," he says, with a momen- 
tary return to his old cheery manner, " for as long a time u 
you like." 

Dora, standing with Dr. Englehart, sees them go — so, too, 
does Mrs. Charlton. She also sees the bride escaping from 
among them, and flying out of the house and down the gar- 
den, regardless of damage to the white silk train— the apple 
of her eye and the pride of her heart bat two brief tears 



106 90*T-*U*TIAL. 

before. She sees everything and bidet her time. That red 
signal-lamp, " Dangerous," if f till up, and Dora feels that 
all her ablest strategy will be needed to outmanoeuvre her 
here. 

Vera makes her way down the gravelled paths towards a 
summer-house she knows of, embowered in a great green 
tangle of grape-vine. Fortunately the grass was rolled only 
yesterday — it hu not rained for a week, so the bridal silk 
takes no damage. But bridal silks and sweeping trains have 
lost their charm ; once more the world is hollow, and " things 
are not what they seem." 

She is married to Captain Dick, all fast and firm ; here is 
the ring shining in the sunlight; but Captain Dick looks 
very desperately out of sorts over it. What is the matter ? 
why has he married her ? She sinks down dejectedly on a 
low seat, and pushes the soft dark curls off her face with a 
hopeless, sorrowful sigh. Oh, dear, dear 1 his going away 
was bad enough, but this is a thousand times worse. And if 
it were not such a dense mystery. She used to think mys- 
teries nice, and for that matter she likes them still — in 
weekly numbers ; but for everyday, and where Captain Dick 
is concerned — no. If he didn't want to, why did he ? She 
never asked him, his step-father never asked him — Dot says 
so. And if he did it because he liked her, and wished to of 
his own free will, why is he so sulky (that is the word Vera 
applies to her hero) — so sulky about it now ? It is not like 
him, and he used to seem fond of her. Vera feels despond- 
ently that being married is not the blissful sort of thing un- 
married people make it out. If she had known it was going 
to be like this, she would never have said yes ; she would 
have seen both him and Dot further, first ! There is some- 
thing wrong. If they were good friends as they used to be, 
she would go and ask Captain Dick ; but he is unlike him. 
selfi and ahe is in awe of him. Slow, miserable disappointed 
tears gather in the foilorn little bride's eyes, and she wipet 






them away gingerly with a bit of handkerchief that oofl 

thirty dollars. She cannot even indulge in the luxury of a 
good cry with such a morsel of lace and lawn as this. She 
feels desolate and bereft, very much as Evangeline may when 
playing hide and seek with the runaway Gabriel, and unable 
to catch up with him. 

In the study, a very sti$ and frozen, and petrified sort of 
conversation is going on. Mr. Charlton stands ominously 
erect and unbending ; Captain Ffrench, with his elbow on 
the chimney-piece, confronting him, wears about as unbride- 
groom-like a face as can well be imagined. After all, Vera's 
hero is very mortal — like most heroes in private life — he feels 
just at this moment that it is sufficiently hard to have been 
badgered into marrying a slip of a school-girl, who may grow 
up into a frivolous doll like her sister, without being lectured 
and drawn over the coals, about leaving her, as Mr. Charlton 
has just been doing. Good Heavens I he thinks, despond- 
ently, what else is there to do, but leave her t and let the 
child grow up ? What would he, what would any man in his 
senses do with a wife of sixteen, and the education and ideas 
of eleven? 

" It is settled then," Mr. Charlton is saying in a slow, 
harsh sort of voice ; " this is your ultimatum ? You start for 
Honduras with the expedition to-morrow, and leave your 
wife with me ? It would be a pity if we should misunder- 
stand each other at the last You positively go ? " 

" [ positively go," Dick says, doggedly. " As for leaving 
my wife with you, governor, remember she is a wife forced 
upon me by you and Miss Lightwood — not one of my own 
choosing. She, poor child, is not to blame, and if she finds 
out b} and by that this morning's work is a fatal mistake, I 
will at least have the consolation of knowing /never asked 
oei to make the sacrifice. I am «orry we must part b 
anger ; you have been so generous a friend and fath< 

Mcr. Charlton waves his hand in angry impatience. 



igt FotTjrarrAU. 

"We will drop all that, if you please. Protestations of 
gratitude weigh little against ungrateful actions. Go, if ym 
will, but understand this — all testamentary intentions I have 
ever had in your favor end with your going." 

" You mentioned that before, you know, governor/ Dick 
says, coolly. " It is not necessary to enter into it again. 
Leave your fortune to whom you please ; it is entirely beside 
the question of my regret at your displeasure. And now if 
everything is said, with your permission I will rejoin Engle- 
hart and the ladies. The up train leaves St Ann's at five ; 
we must catch it It is half-past three now." 

" I have no more to say,' 1 the elder man responds, in 
cold, intense wrath ; " do not let me detain you from your 
friend. We understand each other thoroughly now/ 9 

Dick holds out his hand. 

" Come, governor," he says, " relax a little, won't you t 
Shake hands at least This is a little too bad, after all that 
is past and gone." 

But Mr. Charlton turns inflexibly away. 

" You have chosen your path, and here we part forever. 
We will have no hypocritical pretence of friendship or re* 
gret We part here ; all is said in that" 

A moment later, and Captain Ffrench is scanning the 
group in the drawing-room. Dr. Englehart has prevailed 
upon Miss Lightwood to lift the general despondency a little 
by singing for him. Dick Ffrench being safely closeted with 
his step-father, Vera having isolated herself from human 
ken, for the time being, Miss Lightwood feels she may relax 
her surveillance thus far. Consequently, when the bride- 
groom reconnoitres, she is in the midst of an Italian song, 
and Vera is nowhere visible. But Mrs. Charlton is exceed- 
ingly visible, and on the watch. She rises and approaches 
him. 

"Captain Ffrench, 99 she says, quickly, "will you let 
toe speak to you one moment? I will not detain you 



FOMT-MUFTIAL. Ifli 

loogav and Vera is somewhere out there, if yon waul to find, 
her." 

Captain Dick looks surprised and a trifle bored This vs 
the second time to-day he has been privately interviewed, 
and informed he will not be detained a moment He only 
hopes the coming ttoe-d-ttoe may be less personal and an- 
pleasant than the past He bows silently and follows, glan- 
cing at her askance in some distrust. It has already been 
mentioned that Captain Ffrench is abnormally afraid of this 
stout matron, and the eye of stone and brow of malignity 
look more stony and malignant at this moment than he has 
ever seen them. Some vengeanceful purpose is in her mind, 
something deucedly uncomfortable is coming, he feels, and 
he thrusts his hands in his pockets, and prepares himself 
darkly for the worst She has a fixed place as well as pur 
pose in view, it seems ; the place is close to a small, rustic 
summer-house, crowned with a grapery. Close to this she 
takes her stand, and faces him. 

" Now for it I " minks the badgered bridegroom, with an 
inward groan. 

" I cannot let you go, Captain Ffrench," begins Mrs. 
Charlton, in a strident voice, which he can feel turning his 
skin to " goose flesh " with its rasping vibration — '* I cannot 
let you go without speaking one word. Your step-lather is 
so completely under the control of Dora Lightwood — so 
utterly infatuated with her, that it is worse than useless to 
speak to him. I cannot let you go, I say, without lifting 
my voice against this shocking plot of which you are the 
victim." 

"What shocking plot, Mrs. Charlton?" asks Captain 
Dick, taking an easy position against the summer-house, and 
making himself as comfortable as maybe under the circum- 
stances. 

"This plot of Dora Lightwood' s, which has just ended is 
your marriage. Is it possible— can it be possible— -that yoa 



MO POST-NUPTIAL. 



do not see through it? Do yon not know that it wis iht 
who told that silly child, Vera, of your accident — that it was 
she who sent her to Shaddeck Light — that she refused to go 
in search of her that night, although urged to do so by Mr. 
Charlton ? It was all, with what has followed, a precon- 
certed plot. And Vera was in it Silly she is, childish she 
is, or pretends to be, but she was crafty enough for that 
You are a rich man's heir. Charlton is a home to be de- 
sired. They both are working girls without a penny, and I 
say that Vera went to Shaddeck Light that night with the 
deliberate intuition of remaining, and of forcing you to mar- 
ry her — as you have done/' 

"And I say," says Dick Ffrench deliberately, "it is a 
d— d lie." 

Her words have poured forth so vehemently, he has been 
so taken by surprise, that up to this time he has had too 
chance to speak. But at this she recoils. 

" Sir I n she furiously exclaims. 

w A lie I " repeats Captain Ffrench, cooUy, " a poisonous 
and foul le. You will excuse very strong words, Mrs. 
Charlton. You like them, apd use them yourself! Vera 
Martinez never came to Shaddeck Light with any such pur- 
pose, never plotted or wished to many me. So far as she 
wis concerned, the whole thing was sheer accident As for 
hsr sister — but perhaps it will be as well to leave Miss 
Tightwood's name out of the question." 

Her astonishment and rage are so great, that they keep 
ter for the moment perfectly speechless. 

Captain Ffrench eyes her steadily, and goes oc 

" Supposing, for argument's sake though, your assertion 
jo be true, is it not a little late in the day, my dear madam, 
for you to come forward and expose the plotters? I am 
married now, your revelations will not unmarry me. And if 
my memory holds good, you were the first and strongest 
advocate of my immediate marriage that morning at Shad' 



deck — the only reparation as a man of honor I could make, 
Why did you not unbosom yourself of all this on that occa- 
sion instead ? It might have served some purpose then — I 
confess I am at a loss to see what purpose it is to scire 
now." 

" Sir 1 n she cries, " is this my thanks——" 

"Ladies who expose nefarious plots never require any 
thanks, do they ? Virtue is its own reward, is it not ? And 
before you say any more, permit me to set you right on 
another essential point. I am not Mr. Charlton's heir. 
Miss Lightwood has not captured a rich husband for her sis- 
ter. As to Vera — God bless her — she is my wife remember 
— it is at once my honor and my duty to guard her reputa- 
tion against slanderous tongues. You will do me the favor 
not to repeat this very remarkable fabrication again. It is 
difficult, I know, to refute calumnies, circulated by a lady ; 
still " 

Mrs. Charlton turns from him, baffled, furious. 

" It is the truth / " she bursts out, " and you know it. Say 
what you will, Captain Ffrench, it is the truth, and you have 
been trapped so easily and speedily that the snare was 
hardly worth the pains Dora Lightwood took. Vera was 
fond of you ; she made no secret of her bold attachment ; 
she followed you like your shadow, or your dog ; she was 
with you early and late ; her passion was patent from the 
first; she went to Shaddeck Light with the fixed tesolo- 
tion of staying and risking all consequences. She is 
your wife, as you say. Yes, and I wish you joy of your 
bargain I " 

She turns and walks away. Captain Ffrench is alone and 
watches her out of sight What is he to do ? Knock her 
down ? What a simple and beautiful solution that would be 
if she were a man ; but being a woman — may the demon fly 
away with her 1 After all it T *s a privilege to belong to the 
unfranchised sex— one can use such fine, strong, nervous 



JO* POST-MUPTtAL. 

English when one ii is a towering rage, aid feels to 
My secure of not getting a pair of black eyes fee it 

But where is Vera ? 

Captain Dick glances about him, takes out his watch, and 
looks at the hour. It is four. This agreeable convertation 
has occupied precisely half an hour. In another he must be 
en route. And now he recalls Vent's wistful, wondering 
face. Poor little soul ! he thinks, it is such a shame to 
visit this chapter of accidents on her head. Whoever is to 
blame, she at least is guiltless. He feels remorseful — like a 
brute — as if he had pushed away harshly the timid overtures 
of a shrinking child. Mrs. Charlton has said she is some- 
where in the grounds. 

"Vera 1 " he calls, and, as if in answer, a sob comes from 
behind him. He turns quickly, parts the leaves ; the next 
instant, with a rush, he is in the summer-house. " Vera I " 
he cries. " Great Heaven 1 is it possible ? " 

He is inexpressibly shocked. For she is here, all in a 
white heap on the damp floor, the wedding robe irretrievably 
ruined, huddled together in a strange, distorted attitude of 
pain. Her arms are on the seat, her head laid on them ; 
she neither moves nor looks up. 

" Vera ! " he cries, and tries to lift her ; a Vera, my pet f 
my dear little Vera 1 " 

He is like enough the Captain Dick of other days now, 
but Vera is past all seeing or caring. She writhes away out 
of his grasp with a strength he wonders at, and only that 
dry, sobbing sound answers him. 

" Vera ! Vera ! " he repeats, in an agony ; " Vera, look 
up 1 I did not know — how could I know you were here I 
Vera, lift up your head I Good Heaven ! what am I to 
say? Vera!" 

" Let me be 1 let me ie ! " she says, in a smothered voice 
and again frees herself "Go away. Ohl go. Do not 
speak to me — do not touch me. Only let me be." 



*OST.#UFTIAL. 90$ 

44 Bat I cannot Yat mustn't stay here. It it damp, and 
-you have spoiled your pretty clothes* Vera— do-* 
there is a good child — get up. Look at this mud and mould 
on your white dress." 

" I wish," the stifled voice says, " I had been dead before 1 
ever put it on. Oh 1 me. Oh I me, what shall I do ? " 

The choking sobs break from her, in a wild, hysterical way, 
that completely unmans him. What is he to do ? She has 
heard every word the vile-tongued enemy has uttered 

"Curse her!" he thinks, savagely; "such beldames 
ought to be shot I Vera!" hopelessly, "will you get up; 
will you listen to me ? What am I to do if you go on like 
this?' 9 

He is at his wit's end. Without actual force ft. is impossi- 
ble to lift her, and he cannot bear to touch her roughly. He 
is so sorry for her, and he knows so little what to say. If 
she were a woman — if she were Dora or Eleanor and could 
be appealed to rationally — but he is entirely at sea with Vera. 
He feels like taking her on his knee, and soothing her with 
caresses and sugar plums. And still she crouches there, all 
in that disordered white heap, and still the dry muffled sobs 
torture his ears. 

11 Vera," he says at last, in desperation, " listen to me. 
It is after four. In fifteen minutes Dr. Englehart will be 
ready to depart, and will expect me to go with him. But I 
cannot leave you like this. If you will not get up, and lb- 
ten, I will go back to the house for your sister, and my friend 
must return to the city alone. 19 

He waits for a moment He has touched the right chord, 
the sobs cease, and with a great effort she speaks. 

" Oh 1 do not," she says ; " do not call Dot. And don't 
wait, please don't 1 Only leave me alone— only go ! " 

" I will never go and leave you like this," he answers reso- 
lutely. "Stand up, and let me speak to you, or I will do ai 
I have said. 9 ' 



904 POSTNUPTIAL. 

She rites slowly, shrinking from the ha&4 that help* her, 
Her head ii drooping, her eyes refuse to meet his, she it 
frightfully pale, and seems to creep within herself as she 
stands. She is so unlike Vera, bright, laughing, fearless, 
Vera, that for a moment he cannot speak. He does not try 
to touch her — with as absolute a deference as he could pay 
to a queen, he stands before her, and tries to set himself 
right It is all Mrs. Charlton's malice and slander; he 
knows it is utterly false, he will never think of her spiteful 
words again. Vera must have heard him repudiate all her 
insinuations— he knows it was purest accident took her that 
evening to Shaddeck — there is no one in the world he cares 
for as he cares for her. Everything it is possible to say he 
says, and says again. Language is, after all, poor and bar- 
ren ; he grows impatient with himself as he talks, almost im- 
patient with her. For she stands just there, so still, so mute, 
so downcast, not looking at him, not hearing half he says, it 
may be — that he despairs. 

" Vera, 19 he says, " are you listening ? Why will you not 
answer ? Why will you not look at me ? Why do you stand 
like this ? " 

"lam waiting for you t3 go," she says, wearily ; " if only 
you would go 1 " 

He must go— some one is calling him, is calling her. The 
time is up. 

* And we must part like this 1 Vera, say once, once only 
—you do not blame me ? " 

" I do not blame you. 1 ' 

"And you do not think I believe that old harridan's abom- 
inable lies ? Say do you lot 1 " 

11 1 do not* 

She repeats her answers like an automaton. If he would 
only go 1 

" And you will write to me ? You will forget this? Good 
Heaven 1 how much I want to say to you, and here is the 



POSTNUPTIAL fOf 

last nmnmti Good-by, good-bjrl they are coming. Do 
not let them tee yon yet" 

He crushes both her hands a second, with unconsciously 
cruel force. 

<< Dear little Vera, dear little pet, dear little wife, goo* 
by 1 " he says, and is gone. 

Dora and Dr. Englehart stand just without, waiting. Some 
thing has gone wrong, they see by his face. No question* 
are asked. Perhaps Dora guesses ; she is pale, and looks 
frightened. 

" Where is Vera ?" she asks. 

" I have just said good-by," he answers, hurriedly. * Is 
all ready, Englehart? Good-by, Miss Lightwood." He 
holds out his hand. " Take good care of Vera." 

And then the leave-taking is over, and half dazed, he is 
being driven rapidly out of the Charlton grounds, and away 
to the St Ann's station. 

****** * 

Late that night in New York, Captain Ffrench writes a 
letter. Vera's white face and crushed look haunt him with 
a presentiment of fear for the future he cannot shake off. 
The letter begins " My dear little wife," and is as gentle, as 
tender, as hopeful, as warm as a young husband's first letter 
should be. It is long, too, and reassures her again and 
again of his perfect trust, and affection, and confidence in 
her. He incloses it in a few lines to Mr. Charlton, and feels 
better for having written it Poor little Vera 1 but she will 
get over the shock in a da> or two. Dora will know what 
to do with her, what to say to her ; she will forget it directly, 
wd be all right again. So, when to-morrow comes, and they 
steam gaily away down the harbor, he has thrown off all pre- 
sentiments and nervous apprehensions on Vera's account, and 
leans over the bulwarks, smoking, glad it is over, glad he is 
of£ and hoping — misanthropically enough— he may not 
a single woman to speak to until he comes back. 



J06 "THE GIML I LEFT BRMIHD MET 

An excursion steamer floats by them, and gives the cat 
ward bound three cheers. The little boat is gay with flags 
and streamers, ladies wave their handkerchiefs from ths 
upper deck, and the band plays. As it chances, the air i§ 
" The Girl I Left Behind Me." 

Dr. Englehart looks at his friend and laughs. 

" Appropriate," he says. " Do you know, Dick, I nevet 
said good-by to your little bride, after all." 

Dick Ffrench sighs. Poor little Vera! How gay this 
pleasure-party seems. Yonder is a girl, in a white hat and 
feather, who looks something like Vera, and s*e ! she is 
waving her handkerchief, with her laughing black eyes on him. 
He returns the salute. What is Vera about just now, he 
wonders, and has she quite got over Mrs. Charlton's brutal 
attack? And so they steam away, down towards Sandy 
Hook, in the morning sunshine, to the merry strains of " The 
Girl I Left Behind Me." 




CHAPTER XXI. 

"THE GIRL I LKIT BEHIND ME." 

[HE is sitting in a rustic chair down among die peacfc 
and plum trees, with idly folded hands, and listless 
air. Over her head shines the mellow sun of a 
scented September afternoon ; about her blows the soft Sep- 
tember breezes; all around her the fruit-trees temptingly 
stand, laden down with their golden and purple globes. On 
the grass at her feet lies her hat ; near it, on guard, crouches 
Nero, casting now and then a wondering, reproachful, sleepy 
glance at his apathetic mistress. Further 0$ the grass is 
strewn with windfalls, trophies of last night's storm. But Um 



M9X / MLMFT MMmjfD MM.* JOf 

windfalls lie ungathered, plnmi and peaches hang juicy and 
mellow over her head in vain. Their charm is gone ; they 
tempt her not ; lassitude holds her, as she sits here now, with 
the sunlight sifting through the fluttering leaves overhead — so 
she has sat for fully an hour ; so she has sat forj hours and 
hours, in the long fortnight that is gone. 

There are girls, simply and wholesomely brought up, tall 
and well grown, womanly enough in appearance, who are yet 
the veriest children in heart ; who can enjoy a game of puss 
in the corner, or blind-man's buflj with as hearty and thor- 
ough a zest at sixteen as at six. Vera is one of these — Vera 
has been one of these, but a subtle change has begun — is at 
work daily, insidiously, and the Vera of two weeks ago is not 
the Vera of to-day. 

So the grapes hang uhplucked, the peaches drop uneaten. 
Nero lies unromped with, and she sits here all the day idle. 
She is thinking. In all her sixteen years of life she has not 
thought as much as she has done during the last two weeks. 
She is thinking for hersell Dora will never be the keeper 
of her conscience more. The slow change from frolicsome 
girlhood to thoughtful, earnest womanhood has begun — is far 
advanced. She has been standing on the hitherward side of 
Mi. Longfellow's allegorical brook, and a brutal hand has 
pushed her across years before her time. She has eaten of the 
fruit of the tree of knowledge, and its taste is bitter. She shrinks 
with terror ; she burns with shame ; she covers her hot face 
with her hands, as she recalls Mrs. Charlton's words. To the 
last day of her life they will ring in her ears, harsh, stern, 
merciless — true — to the last day of her life she will see Rich- 
trd Ffrench as she saw him then, standing erect and noble, 
fighting her battles, defending her fair fame. It is so cruelly 
true — the stab lies there. She was fond of him, and thought 
no more of hiding that fondness than if he had been ner 
brother ; she had followed him like his shadow, and nevei 
knew that it was unmaidenly or wrong, or a thing to be 



Mt •Wtm WML t LMMT MM, 



ashamed of; she dUgo to Shaddeck Light, and remain witfc 
him there, with never a thought of what the world might say. 
She has thought no evil; she knows nothing of the world or 
its ways — inclosed in a cloister, she could hardly have led a 
more hidden, a more innocent life. And through that inno- 
cent ignorance a great and cruel wrong has been done, thai 
nothing in this world can ever set right Brave, loyal, chiv- 
alrous Captain Dick has married her, earing nothing for her, 
to stop the wagging world's tongue. Now she knows why he 
left it to Dora to tell her — why his note from New York held 
only those four cold lines — why he would not come until the 
very last moment — why care and trouble darkened bis face on 
his wedding-day. She knows it all — all He has stood 
yonder and defended her against her foe — yes, but she can 
count nothing on that ; it is Captain Dick's generous way to 
fight the battles of the losing side. He may believe it — he 
must believe it How can it be otherwise, seen as she sees 
it now ? Her conduct from first to last has been such as to 
make her hate herself for very shame. He has thought her 
in love with him — not foolishly fond of him, but in love with 
him ; he thinks she followed him that night to Shaddeck on 
purpose to stay — on purpose to make him marry her. Oh I 
even here by herself, it is too shameful She covers her face 
sni shrinks from the wistful eyes of the dog. Nothing is, 
they say, but thinking makes it so. She has brooded over 
this until not a doubt remains — all that Mrs. Charlton has 
said he believes ; and to save her, and forced by Dora, he has 
married her, and sacrificed his whole life. 

She sits here thinking this, as she has thought it over and 
over again. She is fast becoming morbid, she avoids her 
sister, she cannot meet the eyes of Mrs. Charlton, she shrinks 
from her host. Mrs. Charlton is stffl here, for Vera has not 
said one word to Dora of all that has passed. Nothing could 
mark the change in her more sharply than this. In all her 
life she has never had a thought, a secret from Dora, but shs 



9* 



TME 0IML I LEFT BEHIND ME." M% 



has kept her own counsel here. It is partly because she feels 
she would die of shame to speak of it even to her, partly be* 
cause she knows her enemy would have to leave Charlton ar- 
bour after her revelation. 

And Vera is a generous foe. She does not blame the 
woman much. She has thought it her duty to apprise Captain 
Dick of the truth, she believes her own story, what does het 
going or staying signify ? So she says nothing, and falls after 
that first paroxysm of despair, into this abnormal state of list 
less moping, and wanders away by herself, heedless of book, 
or work, or dog, or piano, and sits about in damp, green 
places, at the risk of premature rheumatism, and broods, 
and broods over her own deadly sins the long, warm days 
through. 

She has received Captain Dick's farewell letter, but she 
has not read it She has looked with dreary eyes at the large 
" Vera," written on the white envelope, and takes it upstairs, 
and laid it away in her work-box unread. She knows what is 
in it, or thinks she does. What is the use of going over all 
that again ? She takes off the wedding-ring from her slim 
third finger, and shuts it up in its pink jeweler's cotton once 
more. There, in its pristine glitter let it lie, she will not wear 
it. She never wants to see Captain Dick as long as she 
lives. He despises her — he has left her, glad to get away, 
thinking her everything that is forward, and unfeminine, and 
disgraceful. She will never write to him, never think of him, 
never care for him, never speak of him, her whole life-long. 

Dora sees the dismal change, and tries her best to find out 
the cause. But Vera is mute. Dora has betrayed her, it is 
all Dora's doing — she will never trust her again. So Miss 
Lightwood gives her two or three hearty ratings for her mop- 
ing fits, and sets it all down to reaction after excitement, and 
the absence of her idoL It will pa3s and the child will take 
no harm* Truth to tell, Miss Lightwood has so much to 
think ot and see about, these golden fteptember days, thai 



MO «Mtt matL I LETT Mi 

she has no time to exorcise Vent's blue devils. She is do* 
eted a great deal with Mr. Charlton ; there are long, serioni 
conversations in the study, long drives, long letters to write, 
and to read. "As the bow onto the arrow," so is Theodora 
Lightwood to the master of Charlton. What is it all about, 
Vera wonders, aimlessly, and is Dora going back to New 
York, and when are her studies to begin? Mrs. Cbarlton 
wonders too, and more, perhaps, to the purpose. She shows 
no symptoms of speedy departure, and makes herself re- 
markably at home in this pleasant country house. 

But the second week of September brings a revolution, an 
upsetting of all things, and the dawn of a new dynasty. All 
of a sudden Miss Lightwood announces at dinner one day, 
her intention of going up to New York on the next Mr. 
Charlton looks conscious, and lays open the hidden articu- 
lations of the turkey he is carving with something less than 
his usual skilL Mrs. Charlton eyes her foe across the table 
with a steady, suspicious gaze. Vera looks up with sudden 
interest. 

" Going to New York ? Take me, Dot I should like to 
go. 

Dora glances at her. She is pale and thin, and looks as 
if she needed a change. Then she turns to Mr. Charlton. 

" It will do her good," he says ; " I think you will have to 
take her, I am responsible, you know," with a smile, " for 
her safe keeping." 

u Very well," says Dora. u Pack up this evening, Vera— 
not all your things, you know — just a dress or two. We will 
go by the morning train." 

By the morning train they go, and Mrs. Charlton is 
thdtelaine. But her host keeps out of her way ; he spends 
most of his time in St. Ann's, or about his farms — his avoid* 
ance is so pointed, indeed, that she cannot fail to perceive 
it Still, as long as she is not absolutely ordered out of the 
house, in the house she is resolved to stay. Miss Lightwood 



\f* 



" THE GIRL I LEFT BEHIND UE* 311 

b gone just five days when Mr. Charlton follows. This is 
startling. Dark suspicions, vague hitherto, bqgin to take 
real and tangible form, and in less than another week are 
confirmed. 

One morning the New York Herald is laid beside her 
plate* smelling all damp and nasty of printers' ink, and open- 
ing it, the first thing her eyes rest on is this : 



" Charlton— Lightwood. — On the 12th fast, at the 
Hotel, the Honorable Robert Rutherford Charlton, ex-Gorerno* 
of Iowa, to Theodora Elizabeth Lightwood, of New York." 

Married 1 The paper swims before her — she sits and 
stares blankly at the printed words. Married ! actually mar- 
ried t That bold-faced little hussy ! that designing little 
trickster 1 that crafty little cat ! She has secured the step- 
son for her sister, the step-father for herself! Her worst 
fears are realised. All has gone to Dora Lightwood — 
she and Eleanor are nowhere in the race. And it is all 
Eleanor's fault Charlton is no longer a place for her ; no 
house that calls Dora Lightwood mistress can ever for one 
night afford shelter to her. If she had had any doubt on 
the subject, a note that comes to her that very afternoon 
dispels it It is from the new lady and mistress of Charlton 
Place, and is an emphatic writ of ejectment. 

'•The Crescent City will be looking iti loveliest this nice September 
weather," writes gayly the bride. "I know how you hate the North-* 
have I not heard yon say so ? Do not sacrifice your comfort any longer 
by remaining in it I quite envy yon the remainder of this month in 
your native city. How rejoiced Nelly will be to see you ! Give her 
our love. At some future time I intend to invite hir to make a second 
visit to Charlton. My husband is well, and joins with me in wishing 
you a pleasant return journey to the South. We go home very soon, 
and would rather be spared the pain of saying good-by— you understand? 
relatives parting is se sad I And just new we are se happy 



Jia « THE GlEL I LEFT BEHIND ME. 9 

that we cannot bear to think of even the ■light** cftoad that wffl i 
felicity. 

•• Yoni*, etc., 

•• Thxodoea S. Liobtwood Chaeltok. 1 



October, and late in the month. A golden-gray sky, inn- 
less but bright, lying low over the gray sea. Orange and 
crimson, the hemlocks and maples stand, gorgeous in their 
fall dress. Windfalls no longer strew the grounds, peach 
and plum trees are stripped. Purple bunches of grapes 
tempt Vera no longer, but Vera is here, bright and brown, 
and looking pretty well recovered from her post-nuptial 
despair. Life, after all, is not quite at an end at sixteen 
and a half, even if one has made a dreadful mistake. Mis- 
takes may be mended, one may live and learn, the world is 
full of pleasant places, and kindly people. She has found 
this out in her month of travel with Dot and Mr. Charlton. 
For they have taken her with them ; she is no incumbrance, 
and her dark, silently-pleading eyes are irresistible. She has 
seen Niagara and the Thousand Isles, and dear old, gray, 
historic Quebec, and quaint French Montreal, and absolutely 
forgotten more than once that such a being as Captain Dick 
Ffrench exists, that she is what Dot calls a "respectable 
married woman." She wears no ring; she is introduced as 
Miss Martinez ; she insists upon it so passionately that they 
yield. She wears long dresses, lovely light silks with trains, 
and every one she meets smiles down frank r into the glad, 
bright, ~ager, beautiful Southern eyes. It is a happy time, a 
royal tuie. Life opens before her in a vista of infinite pos- 
sibilities. 

Dora spends money like a queen. Mr. Charlton dwells in 
a seventh heaven, and grows young again. He is a hand- 
some old gentlemen at all times ; kindly, too, when not 
crossed ; he is proud and fond of his young wife, without 
snaking an uxorious fool of himself and if ready to indulge 



M TBR GIRL J LEFT BEHIND MR* JIJ 

Vera in every whim. So they enjoy themselves all through 
September, and far into yellow October. Now it is the last 
week of the month, and Vera sits here on the rustic chaii 
alone. Once more Nero lies at her feet, neglected no longer, 
but patted, and made much of, and conversed with on topics 
suited to his doggish intellect, for Vera knows how to adapt 
her conversation to her company. A book is in her hand ; 
she reads quietly, only looking now and then to follow the 
flight of a bird, or the dizzy boom of a laden bee. Her eyes 
are bright, a fresh color is in her cheeks, she laughs outright 
once at something in her book, and it is the sound of this 
laughter that guides another lady to the spot. A lady in a 
pretty dinner dress as blue as her eyes, perfumed, jewelled, 
fair to behold, the Hon. Mrs. R. R. Charlton. She smiles 
slightly as Vera laughs aloud a second time, a satisfied smile. 
Dick Ffrench is well away, and his bride is not breaking her 
heart for his sake, that is sure. But for all that Dora does 
not quite understand the change in her sister since his de- 
parture. In many ways she is completely changed. She 
never speaks of him — she upon whose tongue the name of Cap- 
tain Dick was forever. In her brightest moods she darkens, 
frowns, grows silent, if he is recalled. She refuses to speak 
of their parting ; she refuses to discuss her marriage at all. 

She has grown reticent — she holds herself entirely aloof 
from all gentlemen, with a sort of proud, shrinking shyness. 
Like Undine on her wedding-day, she seems to have found 
her soul 

" Your book appears to be amusing, my dear," says Mrs. 
Charlton. "You will soon have to give up novels, however, 
and take to the nine parts of speech, and trisyllables. Miss 
Lansing will be here next week. 1 ' 

Miss Lansing is a very accomplished English governess, 
engaged in Canada, perfect in music and modern language!, 
Vera looks up with interest 

"I am glad of that," she say*, "ray glad. It is time 1 



314 * THE GIRL I LEFT BEHIND ME* 

began, aiid I mean to do my best. No one can be mora 
ashamed of her ignorance than I am — no one has more need." 

Her voice falters a little, she turns away. Her sister look* 
at her keenly. 

" It is almost time we were hearing from Captain Ffrench,* 
she says, abruptly. 

* 

There is no reply. 

"Vera, what was in that letter he sent yon from New 
York?" 

" I do not know." 

" What/" 

" I do not know. Yon need not look incredulous—it is 
true. It is upstairs in my writing-desk. I have nevet 
opened it" 

" Never opened it ! Never opened Dick Ffrench's letter 1 " 

" No. What was the use ? I know what is in it — four 
formal lines. I would rather keep it as it is. Some day I 
may read it Dot, you — you have not told Miss Tensing 
that " 

" That her pupil is married — not likely. And no one 
here knows except Harriet, and I have given her to under- 
stand that if she tells tales she goes. It is best so, as next 
spring you must go to school. Mr. Charlton and I are going 
abroad in April to remain the whole year, and Charlton is to 
be transformed. I intend to add a wing there, for a billiard 
and ball-room — opposite, on the south side, shall be a conser- 
ratory. A few more chambers will also be needed. Each 
year, from September to Christmas, I intend to fill the house 
with guests, and for the first time in my life enjoy my life. 
Oh, Vera, they may say what they like, but only the rich 
live. The poor exist, drag out their days somehow, but 
wealth is the golden key that unlocks the world, and al 
therein. I think I never knew what it was to be really 
happy before.* 

Vera eyes h*r wistfully. 



«m matL / lmft sjumm tmr m$ 

m And you are happy. Dot ? " 

14 As happy as a queen — I can think of no greater Happi- 
ness than that I am proud of my husband. I would not 
exchange him for your Captain Dick, no, nor for any man 1 
ever saw. I am fond of my husband — he is awfully good to 
me, Vera ; he denies me nothing, and he is richer than even 
I supposed. And I am happy, happy, happy I I would 
not exchange places with any woman in America.* 

And Dora meant it To the full extent of her capacity 
for happiness, she is happy. How this marriage came about 
who is to tell ? It is an idea certainly that never of itself 
would have entered Mr. Charlton's head. But if a young 
girl, all unknown to herself, gives her heart unasked, and — 
and all that sort of thing, and if tearful azure eyes, and lovely 
light hair, and a faltering, broken voice, are brought into 
play, what is an elderly gentleman, easily fooled and flattered, 
to do ? They are married, and Dora is devoted to him, and 
means to be a good little wife, and make him happy. She 
can wind him round her finger, he gives himself up to the 
siren spell of the enchantress, and never dreams of saying no 
to his little missis. The gray mare, at Charlton, it is dear 
from the first, will be the better horse. 

" He is late for dinner," says Dora, looking at her watch. 
" What detains him, I wonder ? He said he would return bf 
the four o'clock boat, without fail." 

"Where has he gone?" 

" To New York, on important business. I may tell yon, 
I suppose — to make his wilL It is always a wise precaution* 
He should have been here two hours ago." 

"Some one is coming now," says Vera. 

Over the hard white road, and up the long sweep of 
avenue, a horseman rides — rides, too, at a furious pace. 

"It is not my husband," says Dora, he never gallopf 
Vkethat" 

It is not her husband, it is a man from 8t Annfs\ 



2l6 « THE 6/JLL I LEFT BEHIND ME.* 

dusty, pale, excited. She rises from her seat, and calls la 

him. 

"Do yon wish to see me?" she asks. "Have yon a 

message for the house ? " 

"I want to see Mrs. Charlton," he answers, touching 
his cap and looking anxious. "If either of you young 
ladies " 

"/am Mrs. Charlton." 

He falls back a pace, and is silent Dora comes up close, 

"Something is wrong/' she exclaims. "What is it? 
Speak quickly 1 " 

" Our people sent me," the man says, in a hurried, breath- 
less sort of way ; " they are coming as fast as they can. I 
was to — to break it to you." 

"Break what? Be quick, I say! "cries Dora, stamping 
her foot. 

" Miss — ma'am, there's been an accident to the steamer— 
svi explosion — not much of an explosion, but two persons 
are hurt, and one is — is " 

" Killed I " cries Vera. 

" Killed, miss. And I'm sorry to say, miss — ma'am, 1 
mean — that that one is " 

No need to say it The feet of those who bear him are 
at his gates. He lies on a door, all stark and ghastly, the 
dead face covered, who was only this morning a hale and 
upright gentleman. And Tt todorx Charlton, six weeks * 
is a widow, 



• WHEN DAY IS DOME* 21J 




CHAPTER XXIL 

44 WHIN DAT IS DONS." 

|CVEMBER is here — is here in rain, and wind; and 
mist. Overhead there is a leaden, low-lying, fast* 
drifting sky — far away there is a sea, black, toss- 
ing, white-capped. The wind has a sighing, banshee sort of 
shriek as it whistles about the gables, and wrestles with and 
buffets the trees. The rain patters, patters against the glass ; 
it is chill, too, with a touch of winter in the blast 

Vera stands at her bedroom window and gazes out It is 
late in the afternoon, and the house is as still as a tomb. 
Her eyes wander away from the desolation of rain-beaten 
landscape to the far sea line. Yonder is Shaddeck Light, 
nearly blotted out in a whirl of rain and sea-fog. It is ten- 
antless now, even Daddy is no longer there. She turns from 
it wjth aversion — if she could only blot it out of her memory, 
out of existence I How the trees are twisting and totting 
about wild, green arms in the fierce embrace of the gale. 

M A wind that shrieki to the window-pan*, 
A wind in the chimney moaning." 

She quotes dreamily. How wild it must be out there on 
Shaddeck Bay, among those wicked-looking little white 
caps t What short work they would make of the Nude. 
And what a clean white death it would be, so much better 
than half what the world dies of — long, loathsome, foul, dis- 
ease. 

Death is in the girl's mind to-day — has been the chief 
thought in it for six days past They have buried their dead 
oat of tight, and life goes on without him. It it a desolate 



Sit " WHEN DAY IS DCNML 9 

thought* -they cany us to the grave, and life goes on wfck 
oat as. Just the same to those who held as most dear— « 
gaf — a missing face and voice for a little, then gently ob* 
livion, and we are forgotten. Bat it is too soon for forget- 
ting here yet Vent's mind is fall of him. How awfully 
sadden it all was I Hundreds of railway accidents, of steam* 
boat explosions, happen, and we shudder for a moment, and 
they pass from our memory; but some time one comes 
home to us, and stands cruelly apart forever, from all the 
rest " In the midst of life * By land and sea there 
are disasters. By sea t Does this surging November storm 
howl out tnere on the ocean where he is, and is he in dan* 
ger ? A cold, creeping sense of fear comes over her ; she 
has said she never wants to look on his face again — what if 
she never does ? 

" Vera, my dear," a voice breaks in, " Mrs. Charlton says 
she wishes you would go to her. She is in the study, sorting 
papers, and wants you to help her, I think." 

It is Miss Lansing, the governess. Vera turns from the 
window, relieved to find her dreary train of thought broken 
up. She descends to what a week ago was the master's 
study, and finds her sister sitting at a desk, with bundles of 
letters and papers before her. In her trailing crape and 
bombazine Dora looks fairer and frailer than ever ; on her 
golden hair is a widow's cap, and her pale blue eyes are 
faded and washed out with weeping. For Dora has wept 
real and honest tears of sincere regret He was so good to 
her, so fond of her, so fond of her. As much love as her 
poor little flimsy heart has to give, she has given to the gen- 
erous gentleman who made her his wife. 

His death has been a blow, a bitter blow, softened, it may 
be — although she will not own it even to herself— by the 
fact that he has left her everything, absolutely everything 
The will has been read, and there is no horde of hungry re 
lations to dispute it, to talk of undue influence, of unsound 



« WBBN DAY IS 1HHTM. 9 **9 

■und, etc. It leaves her everything. Mrs. Charlton and 

Eleanor are not even mentioned; to Vera is left ten thou- 
sand dollars. All the rest — a noble inheritance — goes to his 
beloved wife, Theodora ; and at her decease, to his step-son, 
Richard Caryl Ffrench, should he survive her. Will it be 
believed? Some latent sense of justice in the little lady 
herself has been the instigation of this, coupled with the 
hope that her sister may benefit by it. In her secret heart 
she is convinced her life is not likely to be a long one — 
when she goes she cannot take all that gold with her, and 
has an idea that if what preachers say be true, it might meU 
if she could. This is why Richard Caryl Ffrench, vigorous 
in strong young manhood, stands a chance of having his own 
again, when Mrs. Charlton is done with it. She has cast a 
rapid glance over her future, remote and present. She will 
not marry again — that to begin with. She is rich and free, 
and young and pretty ; she asks no more of life. To marry 
again would be madness. She will remain at Charlton with 
Vera and the governess, this winter, as she originally in- 
tended, and go to Europe in the spring. A year or two 
abroad, and then, with weeds laid aside, and health improved, 
she can return and make the most of life. She is doomed— 
that she knows ; heart-disease, slow, insidious, but fatally 
sure, is doing its work. Night will come for her more 
quickly even than it comes for most, but her day shall be as 
sunny as she can make it. A little heathen is Dora Charl- 
ton, though she goes to church respectably enough, every 
fine Sunday, and calls herself a miserable sinner, with the 
best of them. It is probably the truest thing she says the 
week through ; an out and out little pagan she is — Mam- 
mon, fashion, dress, pleasure — "these be thy gods, O 
Israel ! " 

She turns from her work as Vera enters — Vera, locking 
long, and slim, and black, in ker heavy mr/urning robe. 

"Oh! Vera, child," she says, fretfully, "you mtutfed* 



* WBMN DAY IS DOME* 

me. I grow to tired wading through all these dreary papen 
and letters, and finding out what to burn and what to keep. 
I cannot ask Miss Lansing, a stranger, of whom I know no- 
thing. Such quantities of bills and receipts, and old letters 
— my head is splitting. All the important papers, deeds, 
mortgages, and that, Mr. Bennet has. But most of this is rub- 
bish — I wonder why people will keep old letters. Here is a 
compartment of the desk I have not gone through yet— do 
you take them, and tell me what they are. I want to got 
through before dark." 

She gives Vera her two hands full of papers. The girl 
takes them, seats herself by a window, and begins her task. 
Some of the letters are yellow with age — she is vividly in- 
terested. Here is a small, flat package from a school-fellow, 
dated thirty-five years ago, the ink nearly obliterated. Here 
is a bundle tied with blue ribbon — they are from his wife, 
from Dick Ffrench's mother. Her color rises, she looks at 
them a moment, touched and interested, but she does not 
read them. She takes them over to her sister. 

"They are from the first Mrs. Charlton, Dot," she says, 
and goes quietly back. 

But Dot is not sentimental — not in the least. She glances 
curiously over one or two, then throws the poor little pile 
into the waste-paper basket Only a dead woman's letters 
to a dead man. Why should they cumber the earth, when 
writer and reader are dust ? 

Bills, receipts — it is as Dot said, the accumulated rubbish 
of years. More old letters sere and withered, like autumn 
leaves. It is darkening fast outside, but she is nearly 
through— only one letter left now. Not an old one this 
time ; the writing is fresh, and black, and bold. Hex heart 
gives a great leap ; she knows that hand. She takes it up 
with a curious sort of reluctant tenderness, and gentlv 
touches with her fingers the large, none too legible chirog 
rapby. " Not York, Aug. sth ; " it was written j«st btfovt 



"WHRN DAY IS 1HHTM. 9 MI 

Us marriage, M My Dear Governor " — " Yours affectionately, 
R. C. Ffrench." And here is her own name — once, twice, 
four times. Shall she read it — shall she give it to Dot ? 
Surely she has a right to read it Right or not, she wM 
read it, for her eye has caught something that in a second 
turns the balance. She draws nearer to the waning light, 
spreads it out, and begins to read. 

It is the epistle Richard Ffrench wrote to his step-father, 
after the receipt of Vera's unique love-letter, and which so 
angered Mr. Charlton. It has been thrust here out of sight, 
and this is how it has come to light If Dora had met it, no 
harm would have been done ; but Fate, with her usual grin 
sense of humor, has come to the front, taken the matter in 
her own hands, and here is the result Alas, and alas 1 why 
do we ever write letters ? They rise up against us, saying 
things we never meant to make them say, writing us down 
asses in the face of the world, for our besotted folly in pen- 
ning them. Tell your mistress you love her, tell your friend 
all you have is his, but tell it not in black and white. In 
courts of law, in public prints, on the jeering tongues of 
street-gamins, they will stand in judgment against you, and 
make you out a liar and a fooL 

And Vera reads, and reads on : 

" The more I think of it the more convinced am I that the 
sacrifice is at once absurd and unnecessary." "Over- 
whelmed by the tears and reproaches of Miss Lightwood. ' 

" Having pledged myself to her sister, at any cost to 

myself I shall keep my word." " I feel, when too late to 

draw back, that this nonsensical marriage is utterly unneces- 
sary/ 1 "To like her as a child is easy enough — to love 

her as a woman may be impossible." " I have no more 

wish to sacrifice my life than other men, but having pledged 
myself to her sister, at any cost to myself/' etc. 

She reads it through to the bitter end, begins at the be* 
ginning, and reeds it through again, Tken she sfes» ker knee 



221 - wmmjr 0AY 



hands on die tabic, and starts blankly oat at the paltsrhf 
rain. 

Dora has retreated to another window, gray squares of 
light in the rainy evening gloom, still poring over her weary 
papers. It is only half-past four, but down in the kitchen the 
gas is flaring ; Vera can see it shining out on the wet stones 
of the yard. She wonders what they are cooking down in 
that hot, bright place. 

How it rains, and how the wind blows ! " But having 
pledged myself to her sister, at any cost to myself I shall 

keep my word " Is it as wild and desolate out there on 

the great black ocean, where his ship is tossing, as it is here 
to-night ? and if there is a wreck, will it matter much that ha 
has sacrificed his life to her, after all ? 

Right before her hangs a picture ; her eyes wander from 
the storm outside, to the canvas. It is a dreary thing ; she 
has often thought so, and never liked it ; she looks at it with 
an actual sense of pain now. Why will artists paint such 
gloomy pictures ? is there not misery, and suffering, and 
dreariness enough in the world, without their added mite ? 
It is a twilight scene, in cold grays and pale yellows. There 
is the sunset fine ; the last chill red glimmer of light lingers, 
but rising fast, and blotting it out, there is a dank, white 
wraith of mist Bare fields of yellow stubble ; a flat wet 
marsh, two or three dismal pollards and willows — nothing 
but these, and the low sky line. A broken rail fence, and a 
woman leaning over it, with folded arms, her melancholy 
white face turned to that last pallid gleam of sunset. It is 
mournful ; it ?s hopeless ; there is a heart-ache only in look- 
ing at it It is called "When Day is Done." What story 
of pain and impotent misery is written in that woman's de- 
spairing face? " Overwhelmed by the tears and re- 
proaches of Miss Lightwood" "I feel, when too lat« 

to draw back " 

''Vera 1 " calls Dora, throwing herself back in her chafe, 



- WHEN DAY IS 90ML* MJ 

with a tired sigh, u will you never have done ? I have 
inishedhere. Is there anything worth keeping in that lot ?" 

"Nothing worth keeping." 

As she speaks she folds up the letter, and puts it in net 
pocket 

41 Is that window up?" says Dora, rising and coming 
towards her. " You are as hoarse as you can be, and — bless 
the child ! — she is as white as a sheet'* 

"lam cold, I think," Vera answers. She shivers as she 
speaks, and rises in turn. " Is there anything else, Dot I 
— I feel half sick, somehow." She puts her hand to her 
head, in a lost, forlorn sort of way. " I will go back to my 
loom, and lie down." 

u Yes, go; you are as pale as a spirit, or else it is that 
black dress and this melancholy rainy night Do not come 
down to dinner ; Harriet shall serve you in your room. Lie 
down and get to sleep early." 

" Yes, Dot— good-night* 

* Oh ! I will run up and see you presently. There is the 
dressing-bell, and here is Miss Lansing." 

Vera goes slowly upstairs. A fire is burning in the grate, 
and casting red, cheery lights over the pretty room. She 
walks over to it, takes out the letter, and lays it on the coals. 
It crisps, curls, blackens, leaps into a jet of flame, flies up 
the chimney, and is gone. Then she crosses to her desk, 
unlocks it, and takes out another, an unopened one this 
time. " Vera " on the back in the same large free writing- 
no other name. She looks at it a moment, then deliberately 
tears it in two, goes back to the Are, and throws in the 
pieces. In a moment it is gone. But long after the last 
black fragment has vanished, long after "day is done," long 
after Harriet lays a temptingly-laden server on the table, she 
stands there, her hands clasped before her, looking into the 
ruddy coals, as if reading in them the story of a man's sacri 
iced and darkened life* 



PART SECOND 



W« fall oat, ay wife mad I; 
Oh w« fed out, Ikntv aotvky, 
ft nil Hmil mtn irltli 



CHAPTER L 




|HE time if summer, the place is London, the seem* 
a room in Langham's. A yellow-gray sky, with 
now and then a rift of golden sunlight, glimmers 
above the million roofs ; it is a London fine day. The win- 
dows of the room stand wide, the curtains are drawn back, 
all the air and light there are have free play. Under one of 
the windows, among the cushions of a broad lounge, lies a 
man, his hands clasped under his head, the smoke from his 
cigar curling upward, his eyes fixed in dreamy smoker's 
content on the world outside. The door of the room — a pri- 
vate parlor — stands open, as well as the windows, and a 
lady, trailing some yards of silken splendor after her along 
the passage, catches a glimpse of the recumbent figure and 
•miles to herself. " How cool and comfortable he looks," 
she thinks ; " I believe I must learn to smoke cigarettes," 
and so passes on, sending a waft of wood violets to greet the 
nose of the smoker. 

The parlor adjoining is the lady's, a very elegant apart- 
ment, with a litter of books and flowers, and fancy work, 
that gives it a harmonized and home-like look. The win- 
dows here are open too, and she goes over to one of then 
am 9 stands looking out. She is in carriage costunr pile, 



flowing sQk, tome lace drapery, not to be stigmatised as a 
taawl, and a bonnet, a Paris marvel, to the uninitiated eye 
just a knot of creamy point lace and one pale guelder rose ; 
but as to price — fabulous. Her whole array, from the di* 
monds twinkling in her ears to the dainty, pointed, high- 
heeled shoes, proclaims lavish wealth and excellent taste. 
Art, in the shape of a Parisian milliner and mantua-maker, 
has done much for her ; nature has done more. She sets 
off her dress more than her dress sets off her; you forget the 
toilet in looking at the wearer, and that is high art She is 
tall, she is dark, she is handsome — in these three points 
there can be no two opinions. The degree of beauty is an 
cpen question — something more than handsome the majority 
call her. She has a pair of eyes such as Murillo or Titian 
in their day loved to paint, eyes whose lustrous brown beauty 
might have redeemed from plainness even a plain face. She 
has a rich abundance of silken dark hair, worn in a thick 
twist high on a shapely head. Modistes and artists pro- 
nounce alike the figure simply perfect; the hand in its 
pearl-tinted glove, is long and slim ; the mouth is sweet and 
resolute ; the complexion clear and colorless as the leaf of 
a calla. It is the ugly duckling transformed into a swan. 
It is Vera. 

Six times has the earth lain white and dead under tne win 
ter snow, six times has it stirred green and living under the 
summer grass, since you saw her last You left her at night- 
fall of a drear November day, you find her at four in the 
afternoon of a day in June. You left her tall, straight, 
black, in her mourning frock ; you find her tall, graceful, 
elegant, robed for a drive in the park, in perfumed silks 
and laces. You left her a sallow, unformed girl of 
sixteen; you find her a fair an<' gracious lady of two 
and twenty. You left her pale am. sorrow-stricken at Charl- 
ton; you find her in blooming hjalth and buoyant spirits ai 
langham's. You left her nucleated near the obscure tow* 



226 FMMjL 

of St Ann's ; you find hei a brilliant Delle, ranmc^ the round 

of a brilliant London season, thoroughly enjoying her life, 
her youth, her position, her pleasures, her beauty. They 
are two, yet the same — the moping, forlorn little "Mari- 
ana," deserted in her Yankee moaten grange, and this gaj 
young lady in her Parisian attire — the same Vera — with a 
difference. 

She takes a low easy-chair, and sits down to wait. Tho 
window at which she sits adjoins that at which he/ mas 
culine neighbor smokes. Now and then an odorous waft 
greets her. Presently he finishes, and begins to whistle. 
Then he rises and starts on a constitutional up and down 
the room, keeping step to his own music. Next he goes 
to a piano, standing open in a corner, and strikes half a 
dozen deep chords with a hand that understands the in- 
strument This seems to inspire him, for it is followed by a 
ringing Uhlan song, in a fine mellow tenor voice: 



Hi 
Tnura! 
Wasiit dfeGefiuv? 
Safe Wein— flink ! ffink ! 
flibd blink ! Sabel trink— 
Trink Bint ! Traim I 

Der Htuar, 
Tram ! 

WasistdieGdahr? 
Sdn heralicbster Kla&£ 
Sda liebgesang, 

SchlaJgesang. Tnura P" 

Vers iistens, and smiles at first — evidently the gentleman 
b in fine spirits, and not at all lonely in his solitude. But 
after the first voice the smile fades, her dark brows contract, 
she has heard that song before, once before. It seems te 
her even she has heard that voice. For a moment she if 
pusslad to recall where— then, with a start, and a thrill, ai 



rMMd. m 

of terror, it lashes upon her. A long lamp-lit drawing- 
room, a girl in a short dress, and cropped carls, standing by 
a piano, a man sitting at it, striking a spirited accompaniment, 
and trolling out this ballad of Nicholaus Lenaun, smiling up 
at her as he sings. It is so long ago— so long ago» and jet 
—only six years. 

**Dcr Hvmut, 



He has left the piano, and resumed his quick march up 
and down. Vera's heart has started beating with a rapidity 
that it ha* not pulsed with for the two years of her fashiona- 
ble life. How plainly the voice comes to her — how like 
Mis? 

"Scin Wein— flink! flink! 
S*bel blink, S*bd trink— 
TrinkBlut! Tram!?' 

She rises quickly, impulsively, and rings the bdL A 
fftonch maid appears after a moment* 

" Ftiicun," her mistress says rapidly, " go and get mm a 
list of all the arrivals at this hotel for the past week. And 
be quick. 9 ' 

The girl goes. The voice of her musical neighbor has 
ceased singing, and resumed whistling. Vera's brows are 
contracted, one dainty foot taps an impatient tattoo. 

"If the carriage comes before Ffeliciant" she thinks; 
* and Dot so hates to be kept waiting." 

But the carriage does not come first — F61ician enters tri- 
umphant with the list. It is a long one, but the young lady's 
eye glances over it in one flash . It drops from her hand— 
fheie it is — the name she has looked for. The voice that 
sings is the voice that sang for her six years ago the same 
dashing trooper song. 

All is quiet in the next room now, he has gone out and 
Her tense of hearing has quickened painfully 



MS VERA. 

within the last few minutes ; the ringing refrain 
her ears a* though it were still sounding : 

"DerHwr, 

Trara ! 
WasiftdieGMftfar?" 

"At last 1 at last ! " she says to herself; "and like this I • 

She has known it must come, some time or other, this 
meeting — with both living it was inevitable. She has won- 
dered often how, and when, and where it might be, and has 
tried to brace herself to all chances. After all, nothing 
could be more common-place, less dramatic ; they are both 
here in the same hotel, and his Uhlan song has betrayed 
him. He is on his way to America perhaps, but that is & 
very wide guess perhaps ; the world is his home, he is of the 
nomad tribes, a wanderer, an Ishmaelite, a Bohemian, a 
soldier of fortune. He was wounded when last she heard 
of him— from him she never hears — but that was more than 
six months ago. He sounds in very excellent health and 
spirits now at least ; a bullet more or less through the lungs 
does not seem to impair his musical powers. And he is 
here 1 Well, the world is full of paper walls, and they hold 
men and women asunder as surely as though they were of 
iron and adamant. He does not know they are here, of 
course ; she hopes, drawing her breath quickly, and her 
cheek flushing — that he may not. She will not lift one 
finger to let him know. If only Oct does not find out 1 
But that is hopeless ; Dot finds out everything. Luckily 
they go soon, and Enter F6lician. 

" Madame' s compliments, mademoiselle, and she w waiting 
in the carriage." 

Vera rises, and sweeps her silk flounces after her over the 
-carpeted corridor. A gentleman is running upstairs at the 
moment — she draws quickly back to let him pass. He gives 
her a fleeting glance of grand, careless, surprised admiration, 



and passes an. It is too rapid, too mdiiect, km 
recognition ; he has seen only a feir woman, richly robed, 
making way for him, and forgets fcer as soon as seen. She 
goes down and enters the carriage, where ner sister already 
sits, as Felician has intimated. It is Dot, but a faded Dot, 
a pale, thin, aged Dot, with transparent skin, and sharp 
cheek-bones, and bistre circles under the blue eyes. There 
is rouge on the poor wan checks, blanc de perle on the lost 
complexion, and a white gauze vail over all That her dress 
is elaborate, is costly, is from Worth, goes without saying ; 
the pale gold hair too is profuse — more profuse than ever ; 
Dora is rich and regards not expense. But in spite of false 
tresses, false bloom, white gauze, and India muslin, Dora 
will not bear inspection too nearly, or in too strong a light. 
Her pink silk parasol casts a fictitiously roseate hue over her, 
but it cannot obliterate the fine lines of care and premature 
age between her bismuthed eyes. 

" How long you have kept me waiting," she says, queru 
lously, " and good gracious ! how pale you are. Is it that 
yellow rose you wear, or is it that you are ill ? " 

" I am not ill,' 1 Vera answers slowly ; " it will soon pass. 
I am never very red, you know. Where is Mr. Fanshawe ? n 

"He keeps me waiting, too — how tiresome everybody 
is ! " still querulously. " Oh I here he is at last." 

A gentleman joins them on horseback, an excessively 
handsome, fair man, with profuse blond beard, a complexion 
as delicate as that of a miss in her teens, and a pair of light 
blue, sleepy eyes. 

" Not detained you, I hope ? " he says, and takes his place 
at the side of the carriage where Dora sits. But he looks 
curiously at her sister, a jtalf-smile on his bearded lips. She 
does not notice him ; she is gazing straight before her, with 
a certain blankness of expression that shows she sees noth- 
ing. He pulls a newspaper out of his pocket and leant 
down to Dora. 



3J0 SBMA. 

"Read that," be sayi, tn a guarded undertone and 
oat a paragraph ; " do not let Vera see you." 

She takes it and glances in some surprise. It is headed 
"The Cuban League," and is something about a meeting of 
the " Executive Committee of the Cuban League, held yes- 
terday at the rooms of Dr. Emil Englehart, Langham's Hotel, 
at which Colonel R. C. Ffrench, formerly on the staff of 
General Morton, in the Sixth Army Corps, of the late Ameri 
can civil war, was one of the notabilities present. The colo 
nel, it may be mentioned, has recently distinguished himself 
greatly in ' Cuba Libre, 9 notably at the capture and destruc- 
tion of the city of Las Tunas. On that occasion he was 
severely wounded, and left for dead on the field. His health 
is now almost entirely restored, and he shortly returns to re- 
join the cause of the Ever Faithful Isle. In science, as in war, 
Col. Ffrench is equally distinguished ; he was one of the little 
band of explorers who, three years ago, returned from the Hon- 
duras expedition. His book, 'Among the Silver Mines,' was 
spoken very highly of among certain readers at the tune." 

The article is lengthy, but Dora reads no more. She 
makes no sign, except to frown darkly at the printed page, 
and hands the paper back to her escort A glance of intel- 
ligence passes between them, then they look at Vera, but 
Vera still sits abstracted and silent, and notices nothing of 
this flttle by-play. 

" How long has he been here ? " Dora asks at length, in 
a low voice. 

" Three days, and by the oddest chance his rooms adjoin 
ours. He and this Dr. Englehart are there together. They 
have a dinner party of the Cuban sympathizers, it seems, to* 
night. It is impossible but that he and Vera shall meet." 

She frowns more deeply, the fine lines between the eyes 
grave themselves into little furrows. 

** It is only a question of time, you know/ 9 the gentlemaa 
says, lazily. " What are vou going to do about it ? " 



rs*A. aji 

* I mult see him," she says, impatiently. "What above f 
And just as I was beginning to enjoy myself. Why couldn't 
he have died respectably in Cuba when he was about it ? 
People have no business to go about with bullets in them." 

" The bullets were extracted, my dear." 

" He ought to die — it would be ever so much moie con* 
renient every way. And just as Sir Beltran Talbot is grow* 
ing so particular in his attentions, too I The other men of 
the expedition caught fevers and died; why couldn't he? 
Other men were shot at Las Tunas and stayed shot, but this 
Ffrench " 

The gentleman laughs, still lazily, and shows very white 
teeth. 

"Widow's weeds would be eminently becoming to our 
pretty Vera, I think myself. I know two or three men who 
would prefer her in them — if they knew the truth. Would 
she don weeds and crape, do you think, if this Ffrench really 
went over to the silent majority ? " 

" Of course not. How absurd, Dane 1 After all these 
years, and nobody knowing a thing of it What a mistake 
it was — what a stupid mistake, and no one to blame but my- 
self ! I must own that. He didn't want to, and she — but 
she was such a little fool in those days ! " 

" Was she really ? " he says, and glances over at her with 
interest " I cannot fancy our stately Vera in that role, or 
any role except the dignified, and uplifted, and gracefully 
self-possessed. She was not always the law unto herself, 
then, that she is at present ? For even you, my angel, must 
acknowledge that hers is the ruling spirit of our nUnagt* 
Was she in love with Ffrench in the days when she was a 
tittle fool ? " 

" I don't know. No — yes — she was a child, and a simple* 
ton, I tell you, and did not know the meaning of the word. 
No, she never was in love with him." 

M And vet he is a proper fellow, too, to win a lady's fiwoi 



*$2 rjutd. 

—better-looking nor, I think, than even in those day*. He 
if tanned to a fine shade of burnt Sienna — I met him jester* 
day — and looks every inch a soldier. There is no saying 
what any of you angelic beings will do in any given case, but 
it seems to an outside barbarian like myself an easy enough 
thing for any woman to fall in love with this dark and dash- 
icg Free Lance." 

" Vera is not of the kind to (all in love at a moment's 
notice, Mr. Fanshawe 1 " 

" But sooner or later she is bound to do it, you know, and 
very probably make an idiot of herself for her pains. You 
were not of the kind to fall in love at a momenta notice, my 
Dora, and yet n 

" I have done it, and made an idiot of myself for my 
pains !" Dora interrupts with sudden bitterness; "is that 
what you are trying to say, Mr. Fanshawe ? " 

" No, my love, it is not," murmurs Mr. Fanshawe, caress- 
ing his blond beard ; " far be it from me to stigmatize as 
idiocy what has been the crowning bliss of my life. Sir 
Beltran Talbot, Guardsman, is an ass, or thereabouts — a 
good-natured ass, I allow, but still too profoundly asinine to 
aspire in any case to the hand of our royal sister. CoL 
Ffrench is a fine fellow, as I remarked before, only unfortu- 
nately he is in the same predicament as the immortal * Peter, 
pumpkin eater, who had a wife and couldn't keep her/ 
Joining exploring expeditions and turning soldier of fortune, 
does not as a rule put money in your purse. And our lovely 
one is a costly luxury. I should think, now, those ravishing 
Paris toilets she adorns so well, would cost in round figures 
some ten thousand dollars a year." 

All this ttte-d-tite has been carried on on tb* off side of 
the carriage, unnoticed and unheard by Vera. Sne has her 
own life apart, her own day-dreams; her thoughts are a 
sealed book to Dora. Now 'hey are entering the park, and 
the conversation of necessity ceases. But all through tht 



■low drive up and down the Lady's Mile, -nrough die bows* 
and smiles, and greetings — and Dora has made many friends 
•—she is still absorbed in the thought that she must and will 
see Colonel Ffrench before Vera. 

They dine out that day, then follows Covent Garden, after- 
wards a ball. Royalty is present at the latter ; it is one of 
the most brilliant and exclusive of the season, but still! 
through it all, Dora keeps that thought uppermost — she must 
see Richard Ffrench first. She watches her sister closely ; 
she is not so radiant as usual to-night ; her face looks pale, 
her eyes listless, her manner is distrait; she avoids Sir 
Beltran Talbot with a very pronounced avoidance. Dora 
bites her lip ; it is such a pity — such a shame ! His " place" 
in Dorsetshire is a place to dream of; his rent-roll stands 
first in the baronetage ; his infatuation for Miss Martinez is 
patent to gods and men. Oh, it is too bad I And all be- 
cause of this Richard Ffrench — this wild, wandering, soldierly, 
good-for-nothing She taps her delicate fan so impa- 
tiently that the frail sticks snap. She must see him ; there 
must be some way found out of this muddle. It was all a 
mistake — she sees that now, when it is too late. Vera might 
be my Lady Talbot to-morrow if she would. And she does 
not care for Ffrench — never cared for him in that way. 
It is such a pity I That nonsensical marriage must be set 
aside. 

" You look tired, Vera," she says, some time in the small 
hours. " Would you not like to go ? * 

Vera is tired ; she says it wearily, listlessly ; she would 
very much like to go, if Dot is willing. 

Dot is always willing and brisk, when she has mischief on 
hand. So the carriage is ordered, and urVer the chill morn- 
ing stars, they drive home. 

'•Now go at once to your room, and go to bed,* says 
Dora, kissing her, " and get rid of that fagged (ace befor* 
the garden party at Kew, to-morrow." 



«34 A LOOJT BBHTmk 

Vera smflss, and goes. Dora does not follow ner 
pie. She hears voices and laughter in the next parlor, and 
recalls the dinner-party, of which she has been told. Evi- 
dently it has not yet entirely broken up. Prompt decision 
is one of Dora's virtues — she does not hesitate now. The 
hour is abnormal, but mere is never any time like the pres- 
ent She takes a card from her card-case, looks at the name, 
and smiles. The name printed thereon is " Mrs. Dane Fan- 
shawe." 

1 That will tell him nothing," she says; "he does not 
know, of course." 

She takes a blank one, and writes in pencil : 

" Yon have not retired, I know. Will yon overlook tht hoar, tad 
grant me tht fkror of an interview in my sitting-room ? " 

"Theodora Liohtwood. 

** I sign tht old name, that you may recognise it the more readily.* 

She rings for Felician, and sends that sleepy damsel to 
Colonel Ffrench. There is a cessation of the gay voices, 
and a pause. But she is not kept waiting. The sitting-room 
doo opens, " Colonel Ffrench, madame," announces Feli- 
cian, and vanishes. And Dora gracefully comes forward, 
and holds out her mite of a hand, all flashing with jewels, 
and looks up with the old smile into Dick Ffrench's (ace. 



CHAPTER IL 

A LOOK BEHIND. 



IERA, obediently enough, goes to her room and ta 
bed, but long after the " sheen of satin, and glim- 
mer of pearls," are laid aside, long after the morn- 
ing stars wane and set, she lies still and f leepless among the 
pillows, and thinks. 




A LOOK BEHIND. *3J 

(Ak years is a very fair gap in any life ; it Is the record of 
fix years she goes over now. They have passed quickly* 
they look a very brief span, as she recalls them, but they 
have brought many and great changes, in her inward, even 
more, perhaps, than her outward life. It is a sufficiently 
pleasant retrospect, undimmed by any very dark shadow, ex- 
cept in those opening days. But that first autumn is a time 
she will ever remember — it stands apart from all the rest ; 
graven in pain and cruel shame on her mind. 

It changed her, as untroubled years could never have 
done. Over all there is an indistinctness ; dark days blend* 
ing into dark nights, wintry winds sobbing about the gables 
and down the chimneys, sleet and rain, and heavy falls of 
snow. To all people it was an unusually cold and stormy 
winter — to Vera the sun never shone once. Always the 
memory of the words spoken in the garden, of the words 
written in the letter ! Night after night, lying in the bleak 
darkness, it all flashes back upon her, and the agony of mor- 
tification it brings is known only to Heaven and herself. 
He thinks of her as a girl shamefully in love with him, run- 
ning after him everywhere, following him to Shaddeck Light 
with the determined purpose of remaining, and forcing him 
to marry her. Oh ! what a shameful, shameful thing ! she 
sits up in the darkness in an agony that makes her shake from 
head to foot He believes all that. She has thought over 
it so long, and so incessantly, that not a shadow of doubt re- 
mains. She feels that she would rather die than ever meet 
him, that she would fall at his feet only to see the cold con- 
tempt of his eyes. Oh 1 the shame of it ' the shame of it t 
and no human being but herself can ever know how it really 
was. 

She lives two lives in these early days of her trouble — the 
night life of childish, unreasoning misery and sleepless pain ; 
tt*e day life when she says lessons, and spends hours at thtf 
piano, and in reading French and German with Miss Lair 



*j6 A LOOK BEHIND. 

sing. She grows as thin as a shadow, an J Dora begins to 
knit her brows apprehensively, as she watches her. Doia 
knows nothing of all this. 

What is the matter with the child ? Is she still fretting 
over Dick Ffrench's departure, or is it that she studies too 
hard ? Bat she studies so easily—she masters every task 
with avidity ; it is a keen delight to her, all this new world 
of books and learning. Miss Lansing is proud of her pupiL 

" She gets on famously," she tells Mrs. Charlton. "Your 
sister possesses something more than average intelligence- 
she is highly gifted. She masters music and languages with 
a readiness and eaie I never saw surpassed." 

And Dora, ambitious that Vera shall shine in intellect, if 
not in beauty, does not interrupt It is only that she grows 
so fast. Tall already for sixteen, she is shooting up like a 
young willow, slender, supple, graceful, but woefully hollow- 
eyed and wan-cheeked. 

" She will certainly be plain," Dora says, with a sigh 
" she grows thinner and sallower everyday, and has no mots 
figure than a broomstick. Well, she is married — after all, it 
does not so much signify. Dick Ffrench is a bookworm, a 
savant ^ and— great, blundering simpleton ! — no eyes for good 
looks when he sees them." 

Mrs. Charlton has a resentful remembrance of sundry arts, 
and cunning toilets, and pretty looks thrown away on this 
blundering Dick, and of a very decided snubbing adminis- 
tered late one night out there on the steps. But Vera likes 
him, and as the poor thing is going to grow up so painfully 
plain, it is just as well she is safely out of the matrimonial 
market 

Mrs. Charlton sweeps her sables a good deal about the 
streets of New York this first winter, and by no means im- 
molates herself to appease the manes of the late departed 
In a quiet way she manages to spend a good deal of the 
Charlton money, and sec considerable company. She ha* 



A LOOK MMMttflK *SJ 

bo idea of making a suttee of herself or of being buried aKre 
more than three months of the twelve down at Charlton. 
She is a trifle undecided what to do with Vera in the spring, 
whether to send her to school or leave her here alone with 
•her gcverness. For herself, as has been intimated, she in/ 
tends to go abroad. Miss Lansing decides the point — she is 
about to be married, and tenders her resignation. The die 
is cast — Vera goes to school 

In all this time has nothing been heard of or from Captaia 
Dick? 

One day, early in February, Mrs. Charlton enters the 
school-room, a letter in her hand. Vera sits there alone 
practicing ; she has plenty of piano-forte drudgery now. It 
is late in the afternoon, but what waning light there is falls 
full on Vera s face. More than ever Dora is struck by its 
dark pallor, its thinness, and a certain subdued and repressed 
expression that never used to be there. She sits silently 
looking at her for a while, until Vera finishes her piece and 
turns. 

" What is it, Dot ? " she asks. 

Dora holds up the letter, superscription outward, and 
smiles. 

" Do you know that hand ? " she says. 

The blood flushes up over Vent's face, she catches hef 
breath. Oh I does she not ? 

" It came this morning," her sister says, "but I have only 
had time to look at it now. It is for me, you see, but there 
is an inclosure for you." 

She produces it — "Vera" on the white paper, and no 
other nairt. Vera looks at it with longing, with wistful 
pathos, with keenest pain. It brings back so vividly that 
cruel November afternoon, and all the agony, and humiliv 
lion, and shame. She takes it without a word, and puts it 
in hez pocket. She does not mean to read it, she will never 
read a letter of his again — there never can be anything ts 



SjS A LOOK BEHIND. 

■ay between them any more— bat Dot need not be tokl Jut 

She knows what he thinks of her— that is enough. What he 
says here, he does not mean. No doubt he pities her ; we 
mostly have a sort of compassion for what we sc wn. No 
doubt he means to be kind to her, and do his duty by her, 
and go on sending her kindly letters. But she does not want 
duty or kindness of that sort Nothing can alter the past ; 
what is done, is done, but there is no need of her lowering 
herself still more. She will not read his letters, she will net 
answer them, she will never think of him if she can help it, 
she will never see him when he comes back, she will nevet 
be his wife. But all that is still a long way ahead, and jusi 
at present Dot need not be told. She will be loyal to him, 
as she feels he will be loyal to her, and no one shall ever say, 
ia her hearing, one word that is not in his praise. With the 
letter in her pocket, she sits idly stiumming on the keys. 
Dora watches her, quiet amusement in her eyes. 

" Are you not going to read that letter?" she asks; "ot 
is it too sacred to be opened in my presence ? If it is any- 
thing like mine, my dear, you need have no hesitation. 
Anything more prosaic, or curt, or quietly sarcastic than the 
congratulations of my step-son-in-law on my maniage, you 
cannot conceive. Of course he has not yet heard of pooc 
Mr Charlton's death. " 

Vera says nothing; she plays softly, her eyes on the 
keys. 

" You never told me, by the way," goes on Dora, " what 
was in that farewell note of his from New York. You had 
not read it, I remember, weeks and weeks after." 

Still Vera says noth'ng, still she plays on, and avoids her 
lister's eye. 

" How secretive and reserved ve are growing all or a 
sudden ! " exclaims Mrs. Charlton, pettishly, yet half laugh* 
ing. " Don't be a goose, Vera. Read your letter, and set 
what our dear Dick says. I have a right to know what mf 



A LOOK BMMTJfD. a» 

Hep-eon is about, remember. Apropos* though—what shall 
we do with his letters when you go to school ? " 

Vera lifts two inquiring eyes. 

" You see you are going, of course, as an unmarried girl- 
as Vera Martinez, (by the by, Captain Ffrench does not 
do you the honor of putting his name on your letter,) and it 
will never do for you to receive epistles beginning * my dear 
wife, 1 as I suppose they do begin. What had I better say to 
him about it ? w 

" You had better say to him," answers Vera, speaking at 
last, and speaking with quick decision, "not to write at alL" 

" What! 9 

" I mean it, Dot ; it will be much the best As you say, 
the truth would come out if I received letters from him, and 
—and I could not bear it I shall have enough to do besides 
without answering letters. I have nothing worth writing oC 
either, and — and m every way I shall prefer it" 

Her sister sits amazed, and looks at her. 

" Vera, do you really mean this ? " 

" I really and truly mean it" 

"You do not want to receive letters from Captain 
Ffrench ? " 

" I do not" 

" Do you mean to answer this one ? H 

" No." 

" Because," Dora says, "you could explain all that you 
know. If I write and tell him, he will think it is my doing. 
Not that I care, for that matter, what he thinks." 

" I shall not answer it" 

Again silence. Dora sits fairly puzzled. 

"Well," she says, getting up at last, " I must say you are 
very much altered. Something more than I knew of has 
wrought the change ; but keep your own secrets, if you like. 
I think, on the whole, it will be just as well to drop the cor- 
■sspondence until you leave school. By that time both you 



9$B d LOOT BMMZIOX 

and he will be old enough, let us hope, to know your owa 
minds. The more you learn, and the cleverer you are, the 
better your chance will be of pleasing this scientific husband 
of your* I am to write to him then, and tell him you de- 
cline any more letters for the next two years— until you have 
quitted school. What else am I to say to him for you ? M 

" Nothing else, thanks." 

* I shall send him your love, of comwe ? " Dots says, car* 
lessly, going to the door. 

"No!" Vera exclaims, so sharply and quickly that hes 
sister starts. " No 1 Remember that, Dot — no sending of 
love. I send none. I am well, and do not wish to write. 
Nothing but that" 

" Oh, very well," says Mrs. Charlton, shrugging her shoul- 
ders, "just as you please. Only my lord will not believe 
it, you know. You never made any secret before of your 
open affection for him." 

Vera buries her nice in her hands. Dora does not intend 
that last as a Parthian shaft, but it goes home just as surely. 
Oh I how true it is — how shamefully true ! He thinks she 
is dying for him, no doubt, and sends her this sugar-plum to 
solace her in her love-lorn misery. But some day or other 
her turn may come, and if it ever does, he shall see 1 

Early in May Vera goes to school, a school of her own 
choosing — an Ursuline convent. Mrs. Charlton sees her 
safely domiciled with the nuns, and then departs gayly for 
the other side of the world in company with Mr. and Mrs. 
Trafton. She has been eight months a widow now, and is 
looking forward to a speedy shedding of her sable plumes. 
She has grown tired of the pretty widow's cap, and black, 
though not unbecoming, is dismal sort of wear. She ^s look- 
ing forward, also, to a right gay time, for the Trafton's have 
been abroad before, and know many desirable people. 

Life is commencing for Dora Charlton at the mature age 
of seven-and-twenty. And she is not disappointed. She 



A LOOK BEHIND. 141 



thoroughly enjoys her new existence as a queen bee, where 
hitherto she has been a worker. 

They spend May and Jane in London, and make many 
acquaintances — then they go to Switzerland. Everywhere 
the fame of the Charlton millions is walled mysteriously be- 
fore, and the pretty, passte little golden-haired American 
widow is made much of wherever she goes. It is charming, 
it is intoxicating, this homage, this flattery, this admiration, 
this deference she inspires. She spends money like a royal 
princess — perhaps she is a trifle vulgar in her prodigality— 
but as she spends it all on herself and her whims, and con- 
sidering her time of life, and that she has to make up for a 
dozen wasted years, she is not so greatly to be blamed. To 
see, to fancy, is to have. The possessions she accumulates 
would freight a small vessel. Suitors are not lacking — be- 
fore she has been two years a widow Dora might have been 
thrice a wife, if she had had a taste for polygamy. But she 
says no gayly, even though one of the rejected is a German 
Graf, with two score quartering, a castle on the Rhine, a 
legion of dead ancestors, and not a penny in his purse. 

She has everything her heart desires — money, freedom, 
admiration — the world is all before her where to choose. 
Marry I not she. Her wealth will swell the empty coffers 
of no roly-poly German baron, or needy Italian, or fortune 
hunting foreigner of any kind. A wealthy young widow is 
the freest of all created beings. Love I Bah I she is nine* 
and-twenty and has never felt it ; only fools and beggars fall 
in love. She has never lost an hour's sleep or a single din- 
ner for the sake of any man, and she never wilL No man 
on earth is worth one's freedom. Marry I she laughs at the 
njtion — the old, shrill, eldritch laugh. And still laughing 
gayly, and saying no to the German, who follows her like a 
(air-haired, fat shadow, she dances on to Brussels, and there 
meets Mr. Dane Fanshawe. 
ii 



143 "LOVE TOOK UP T8B OLdM OT TOOL* 




CHAFTEK TEL 

"LOT* TOOK UP THE GLASS Of TOOL." 

|HE meets him in a commonplace way enough, Brad 
shaw in hand, and eye-glass on nose, one of a 
crowd of other American sight-seers. He is a 
Cook's tourist, doing Europe with a lot of other " Cookies,* 
but some bond of union must exist in their souls, for they 
fraternize at once. Then they meet again at the opera, then 
at a dinner of the American Legation, then at a ball, where 
Dora finds out that as a waltzer he is simply one's ideal man. 
Not that she has ever had an ideal man, but if she had she 
rather thinks he would have possessed a beautiful blonde 
beard, handsome, short-sighted blue eyes, a faultless taste in 
dress, a low, lazy pleasant voice, and be past-master of die 
art of waltzing. Not a very high ideal, you perceive, but 
Dora never mounts among the stars, and the virtues, the 
ball-room gas jets, and the ball-room accomplishments are as 
high as she can look. 

Mr. Dane Fanshawe is a gentleman, whose voice lingers 
pleasantly in her memory, whose smile she recalls with 
another smile of sympathy, whose compliments come back to 
her with a small thrill of satisfied vanity that is quite new in 
her experience of herself. And why, she wonders ? He is 
handsome, but others are handsomer; he is agreeable, but 
others have been so before him ; he waltzes well, but so did 
that tall Austrian who was so very attentive only a few 
months ago, Dora is puzzled, but pleased ; she is on the 
edge of the precipice she has laughed at, but the edge is 
flower-strewn, and the pitfall hidden in roses. Mr. Fan- 
shawe takes no especial pains to please hex ; it is not hit 



«LOVB TOOK UP TUB GLASS JF TIMML" Hi 

way to take especial pains about anything ; the weather if 
hot, sight-seeing, galleries, churches, and all that, fatiguing-- 
he has enough to do in six days of Brussels without the 
added labor of trying to win a lady's favor. He is not half 
so assiduous as some of the other men ; she is rich, she is 
not bad-looking, but he has heard she has forlorn marriage ; 
and what is the use ? He thinks this languidly one day as 
he watches the devotion of those other men, and meanders 
by himself with bored patience among the Vahdycks an<* 
Rubens. Perhaps it is this very indifference, which she 
sees is thoroughly genuine, that keeps him in her thoughts. 
It piques her. What business has he to stand yawning 
there, three yards off, putting up his glass to scrutinize one 
of Paul Peter's painted women, and heeding no more the 
other painted woman so near him than the pillar against 
which he negligently leans? Then they part; the 
"Cookies" go one way, the party Mrs. Charlton is with 
another. 

It is now close upon the third year of her widowhood and 
the Traftons have long ago returned to New York. But the 
world is small, and people come together somehow in the 
changing revolutions. They meet a second time in Paris, and 
visit more galleries and churches, and drive in the Bois, and 
walk through the gardens of the Luxembourg, and dine, and 
waltz together once more. He shall 3e like the rest Dora 
vows ; he shall feel her power ; he shall bow down and do 
her homage ; he shall lay aside that languid Dundreary air t 
and wake up to the knowledge that she is still a young 
woman, a pretty woman, a fr ?e woman. Of the result to 
herself she does not stop to think. Paris is pleasant, and 
both enjoy it ; they have a community of tastes — they are 
kindred souls. They cross in the same ship, and are in com- 
mon pathetically sea-sick. They walk the deck, they sit in 
sunny nooks, they compare notes, they learn each other's 
histories, they run up and down the old threadbare gairaf 



144 "LOVM TOOK UP TBM GLASS OF TOOL' 



of flirtation. Then they land, tad ooca man their patfea 
swerve asunder. 

44 How bit that tow 
It cobms untaught, 




Dora wakes up to the discovery that life without Mb 
Dane Fanshawe is a blank. She wakes up to the knowledge, 
and is thoroughly disgusted. At her time of life, too— she 
tells the truth to herself— nearly thirty, and he— he is just as 
languid, just as gracefully indolent, just as Dundrearyish as 
ever ; not one whit, she is positively sure, in love with her. 
Let a woman be never so vain, there is an instinct in these 
things that tells her the truth if she will but listen. He is 
poor, too ; he owns it with a delightful frankness that char- 
acterizes everything he says. He has no prospects, no pro- 
fession, no ability; he is just a well-looking, well-dressed, 
well-mannered nonentity, drifting along on a legacy lately 
left him. But what is all that ? She cannot forget him, she 
misses him exceedingly, there is no one she meets who suits 
her so welL She is impatient and angry with herself and 
plunges into the " vortex " of fashionable life, determined to 
forget him. But after New Year Mr. Fanshawe reappears 
on the surface, and plunges into the vortex, too. Not 
plunges exactly — to do anything violent or muscular is not 
in Mr. Fanshawe, and the verb " to plunge " implies both. 
He glides in, and floats round and round, in the old pleasant, 
lasy, aimless way. Naturally they meet often, and it comes 
to pass that the little victress pulls down her colors and lays 
them humbly, and yet regretfully, at the feet of the con- 
queror. Perhaps no one is more honestly surprised than the 
conqueror himself. He has not done much to bring about 
this consummation —he is not aware that he has ever desired 
it very heartily ; still — she is very rich, and net so old, and 
not so bad-looking, and — Mr. Fanshawe receives the con* 
gratulationa of his friends with that calm superiority to aL 



~L0VR TOOK UP THE GLASS OF TIME." Ml 

earthly emotion that sits upon him so naturally and becom- 
ingly, wears his blushing honors calmly, and proposes. Be- 
fore the spring buds are green in this third year of her widow 
Qood, Mrs. Charlton stands pledged to become speedily Mrm. 
Dane Fanshawe. 

And Vera? 

All this time Vera has been in her convent, and Dora has 
not seen her once. But she goes now, and Vera is sent for, 

"Wonderfully improved, my dear Mrs. Charlton — won- 
derfully improved/' says the smiling lady superior, "both 
physically and mentally. Her capacity for study is excel- 
lent; her application beyond praise; her deportment in 
every respect a model of obedience and propriety. Her 
musical ability is quite out of the common — her voice really 
remarkable. I think you will find the result of Miss Marti- 
nez's three years with us eminently satisfactory." 

She does. Vera descends — at least a tall young lady flies 
down-stairs after a headlong fashion that betokens anything 
rather than the repose of Vere de Vere— cries out in a 
laughing, sobbing, delighted cry " Dot I " and flings herself 
into that lady's arms. It is Vera, but a Vera so changed, so 
grown, so improved out of all knowledge that Dora gazes at 
her with eyes of wondering delight. Plain ! Why she is almost 
beautiful. Thin! She is as plump as a partridge. Het 
complexion has cleared up — from dull sallow it is pale olive ; 
her cropped hair is long and in shining abundance ; her 
waist and shoulders leave nothing to be desired ; her hands 
are slim, white, and taper ; her air is self-poised and self-pos- 
sessed. She can talk easily and well ; she has not in the 
least the manner of a school-girl. She is nineteen now, and 
is to graduate this commencement Dora is charmed, is 
enchanted. 

" Why, you pretty child 1 " she cries ; " how you have 
grown, and how amazingly you have improved. I should 
nevtr have known you. So womanly, so well rounded, every 



Ufi "LOVE TOGJC UP THE GLASS OF TIME." 

i 

bone, and joint, and angle gone I and you did so -an ts 
bones and angles in the old days" says Dora, plaintively, her 
head a little on one side. 

Vera laughs, the old, joyous, sweet girl's laugh. That, 
and the Murillo eyes, at least have not changed 

" Ah I do I not know that ? How often I have mourned 
over those same joints and angles I Yes, they have not starved 
me. My one terror is now that I grow fat But I banish 
the thought — that way madness lies. You, too, Dot," gazing 
at her searchingly, "have changed." 

The light of the spring afternoon falls on Dora, on the rich 
black silk costume and costly India shawl, on the piquant 
little Paris bonnet, and, alas I on the lost complexion and 
pearl powder. Dora laughs, but shifts uneasily under that 
clear, searching gaze. 

" Dissipation tells after a while, I suppose," she answers, 
" and I really have been frightfully dissipated this winter. 
It excites me, and I don't sleep well, and then — and then I 
take to chloral, you know, and that is bad. I must go down 
to Charlton early this year, and be very quiet, and try if I 
cannot recuperate." 

She sighs impatiently, and turns away from the mirror into 
which she has glanced. The tale it tells is not flattering. 
Those crow's-feet, those fine sharp lines between the eyes, 
those silver threads among the gold, the yellow pallor of th' 
skin, the small, transparent hands 1 Dissipation, excitement, 
chloral — something is telling on poor Dora. She is growing 
old fast — awfully, horribly fast She is but little over thirty ; 
one should have no crow's-feet or white hair at thirty, and yet 
here they are. To grow old — it is Dora's nightmare, her hor- 
ror — it turns her small, frail body cold and shivering from 
head to foot only to think of. She is faded and aged ; she 
has never realized it so appallingly as at this moment, when 
she looks into her sister's fresh, fair face, with every yoathfal 
curve and soft line in first bloom. 



*LOVM TOOK UP THE GLASS OF TIME." HT 

"You look a little worn, I think," Vera says, tenderly, 
pityingly. " You need quiet and a long summer down at 
Charlton, Dot And I would give up chloral if I were you* 
Go to Charlton, drink fresh milk and eat strawberries, drive 
about the country roads, try sea-bathing, and going to bed at 
nine o'clock. You will be all right again in July, when I 
join you — tr part no more this time, Dot" She throws her 
arms about her, and gives her a second hug. "You dar- 
ling 1 " she exclaims, " it seems so good to be with you again* 
Oh, Dot, I have missed you — missed you in those last three 
yean." 

"So I should hope, dear," laughs Dot, herself again. 
"What a little wiseacre you grow 1 ' Drink fresh milk and go 
to bed at nine o'clock I ' Is that the secret of your radiance, 
I wonder ? And so you have missed me a little, in spite of 
all the ologies and dead and living languages ? " 

" More than I can say. I used to be frightfully Dot-sick 
the first year, and it never quite wore away. Your long, gos- 
sipy letters were such a comfort" 

"I thought you expected to have no time for letters?" 
says Dora, mischievously. " Did you miss any one else, I 
wonder?" 

Vent's color does not rise. Her large, dark, solemn eyes 
look gravely at her sister. 

" Where is Captain Ffrench, Dot ? " 

"No one seems to know. He and I have not corre- 
sponded—oh ! for ages. I wrote him. you know, that you 
did not wish to receive letters from him, and, as I warned 
you. he did not believe me. I managed tr convince him, 
however ; since then I have heard from him no more. He if 
probably in Central America stilL" 

" Not unless he remained alter the expedition. I read in 
a paper more than a week ago that Dr. Englehart and Us 
band of scientific explorers had returned to New York." 

M Indeed I " says Dora, startled. She looks at her 



*4* -love toox up the gas* of tool* 

but the pretty seriousness of her face tells nothing. " Hats 
yon thought — have you made up your mind " 

"I have made up my mind to one thing/' says Vera, 
throwing back her head with a rather haughty gesture, " that 
I am nothing to Captain Ffrench, and never can be. Max 
ried to him I am — that cannot be undone — but that marriage 
shall never force me upon a man *ho clearly enough gave 
me — you all — to understand from the first that he did not 
want me. That at least has been plain to me for a very long 
time." 

" It is such a pity 1 After all, it was not necessary, as 
things turned out No one need ever have known of thai- 
night at Shaddeck — and you were such a young thing — too 
young to be compromised. I think the marriage was a mis- 
take." 

" I think it was a frightful, an irreparable mistake, Dot— 
a mistake that will utterly spoil two lives. No, not spoil— 
I shall never let it do that for me, but for him — poor fel- 
low " 

" Ah ! you pity him, and we all know to what pity is akin 
Who knows ? it may come all right yet, and you used to 
be " 

" Oh I Dot, my sister, do not say it— do not ever say that 
again. I have suffered — I have suffered, I have been fit to 
die of shame ; I am still, when I think of it To know that 
I was forced upon him, that he was obliged to marry me ; to 
know how he must rteve despised me, as half fool, half knave I 
Dot 1 Dot I I go wild sometimes I If I could die to givs 
him back his liberty, to undo that day's work, I wc uld die 
this hour I" 

She walks up and down the room, and wrings hex hands. 
Her gray school-dress hangs in straight folds about her, with 
something of a classic air — her pale face, her wild words, the 
intense expression of her eyes, give her the look of a tragedy 
queen. It strikes Dora in that light and she laughs. 



»LOrM TOOK UP THE GLASS OF 7VME* 249 

44 My dear child, if you do it half as well when you gradu- 
ate, you will bring down the house. You look like Ristori 
in Marie Stuart. It is never of any use regretting anything 
in that tragic manner ; highflown feelings are out of place in 
the age we live in, and passions, you know, were never made 
far the drawing-room. We will see what can be done. If 
you wish it, and he wishes it, and, considering everything, 
that sort of marriage should not be irrevocable. If he is in 
New York I will see him, and talk it over. Now I will aay 
good-by until July.* 

So Dora goes, and returns to the city, and that very night, 
as it chances, at Wallaces, sees Captain Ffrench. He comes 
in with some other men, and takes his place in the stalls. 
Dora leans from her box and gazes at him. How brown 
and manly he is, how silently and gravely he watches the 
progress of the play. He has not changed at all, except that 
three years under a Southern sun have deepened the tints of 
his already brown skin. 

"Who is that tall, distinguished-looking man?" a lady 
near her asks, and she listens curiously for the answer. 
"That is Captain Ffrench, of the Honduras Expedition, 
famously clever fellow. Have you seen his new book, 
1 Among the Silver Mines?' But you don't read that sort 
of thing." 

So Fame has found him out — has Fortune ? But it is not 
likely ; she is much slower of foot than her vapory sister. 

Next day Captain Ffrench receives a note from the widow 
of his step-father. The result is that he presents himself in 
be middle of the afternoon, and is ushered into her pres- 
ence. Dora winces a little under the steadfast gaze of those 
strong gray eyes, and is acutely conscious that she is redden- 
ing under her rouge. She flings back her head, defiantly— 
somehow she is always belligerent with this man. It is not 
exactly a pleasant interview, although a silent one on the 
gentleman's part. He lets her do pretty nearly all the talk 



9$° "LOVE TOOK UP THE GLASS OF TIME.* 



ing, fitting toying with a paper-knife, and keeping throu&hoal 
the same silently grave look that struck her last night Aftet 
all he is changed, too; that old easy, insouciant dash of for- 
mer days is gone. It is a very thoughtful, earnest-looking 
man who sits before her. 

" I have just come from Vera," she says, that defiant ring 
still in her voice; "it is from her I learned that the expe 
dition had returned. She saw it by chance in the news- 
papers." 

" She is well, I trust?" he says, quietly. 

"Quite well, thanks, and so grown, and so different from 
the Vera of three years ago. In every way — in— every- 
way, Captain Ffrench I " she says, slowly and emphatically. 

He looks at her questioningly. 

"She was a child then, younger than ner yean. She is a 
woman now, and older than her years. She has learned to 
think for herself. And the result of that knowledge is that 
the memory of her marriage is spoiling her life." 

" I never doubted that the result would be otherwise," he 
responds, in the same quiet tone. 

" It was a mistake, a fatal mistake — I see that now. She 
did not know what she was about ; she regrets it most bit* 
terly. She would give her life — she told me so— to be free." 

"I do not doubt it" 

"You take it very coolly," Dora says, stung to anger. 
i% Have you nothing more to say than this ? " 

He recalls that morning at Shaddeck Light, when she 
stood before him, flashing angry defiance, as she is doing 
now, and asking him the very same question. A slight smile 
dawns on his face at the supreme inconsequence of the female 
mind, 

" Permit me to remind you, madam, that from first to last 
I am not to be held respomible in this matter. It was you 
who insisted it was my duty to marry Vera; it was you who 
asked her to marry me. Whatever oomes of that marriage* 



~LQVE TOOK UP THE CLASS OF TIMJL* 3$ I 

ft if you who shall look to it 1 I positively decline to have 
the blame shifted on my shoulders. Why you insisted upon 
it, Heaven only knows. In the light of later events — your 
marriage " — the strong, steadfast eyes bring the angry bloou 
to her cheeks once more — "I confess I cannot see youx 
motive. I am in no way a desirable parti. I am a pooi 
man, and likely to remain so. I have no time to make 
money, if I had the inclination. I lead a wandering life ; I 
have no prospects. No, Mrs. Charlton, I am at a loss to 
understand your object in insisting, as you did, on this mar- 
riage. And, after having insisted upon it, to try to shift the 
blame of spoiling your sister's life upon me, is a little too 
r?nch. You made the match, Mrs. Charlton — you must bear 
to* blame." 

She sits silent, beating an angry devil's tattoo with her 
foot, two hot, red spots on her cheeks. What he says is so 
bluntly, hatefully, uncompromisingly true. 

" I should like to see Vera," he suddenly says. 

"You cannot see her," Dora answers, angrily, glad to 
thwart him ; " she does not wish to see you. She is still at 
school, and studying hard to graduate. She refused to write 
to you from the first — you may infer from that how her sen- 
timents have changed." 

"Yes," he says, coolly; 'the change is remarkable, 
Indeed." 

' You intimate that she was in love with you, 19 Mrs. 
Charlton goes on, still more angrily ; " well, she never was 1 
It was a girl's foolish fancy for the only young man she 
knew • A sarcastic smile curves Captain Ffir nch's mus- 
tached mouth. "She was not in love with you, Captain 
Ffrench, either then or ever." 

He rises. 

" I have an engagement at five," he says, still with perfect 
composure. " Is there anything more, Mrs. Charlton ? " 

44 Are jm going to remain in New York ? " she 



*5* m LOVM TOOK U* TWM CLASS 09 TIMM* 

" For this month, yea." 

"And then?" 

An amused look comes into his face. 

" Your interest does me honor. Then I go to Cuba. ' 

" To join the war?." she cries, eagerly, "to fight tin 
Cuba!" 

" To fight for Cuba. Fighting and engineering are a.y 
trades, you know." 

Her face clears up. What a short cut this is — how easy a 
way of severing the Gordian knot A man goes to the wars, 
and the chances are five to one against his ever coming 
back. And to Cuba of all places, where malaria lays more 
low than Spanish bullets. Climate and bullets he cannot 
both escape, a beneficent Providence will never permit it 
This Ffrench is just the sort of reckless dare-devil to lead 
forlorn hopes, and storm breaches, and head mad cavalry 
charges. 

Go to Cuba I why it is the very thing of all things she 
would have desired. Her face lights up so swiftly and 
brightly that he laughs outright as he turns to go. He reads 
every thought she thinks. 

" Good-by, Mrs. Charlton. Say it to Vera for me, will 
you, and tell her not to make herself unhappy about the 
foolish past A ball, or a fever may end it all, and will be 
better everyway than the divorce court. Once more, adieu." 

So he goes, still laughing, but in his secret heart, hurt, 
■ore, impatient He does not blame Vera — the change was 
inevitable ; only that she should blame him, should hate him, 
is not so easy to bear. 

" She was such a dear little soul, too," he thinks, regret- 
fully; "so frank, so true. Why, her very name means 
true, ' found faithful.' And she has grown up 'ike her sister, 
no doubt with powder and paint on her face, shallow of soul, 
and artificial of manner I Yes, Cuban fevers or Spanish 
bullets are better than that" 



"LOVE TOOK UP THE GLASS OP TIME.* f $J 

July comes, and with it Verm back to Chariton, for the 
first time since she left it. Green and lovely it lies under 
the midsummer sun, its roses in bloom, its trees in lea£ its 
fruits ripening on the laden branches. Dora has changed 
and enlarged, and improved, but nothing she sees is so much 
changed as herself. St. Ann's, sleepy as ever, lies blistering 
in the white heat, the black water slipping about its rotting 
wharves, and Sunday stillness in its grass-grown streets, as 
of yore. Yonder is Shaddeck Light. The tide ebbs, and 
the tide flows, and the little gray cabin stands lonely, and 
dropping to decay on its wind-beaten, wave-washed rock. Up 
there is the white church on the hill, with its tall gilt cross 
flashing in the sun, where she drove one August morning, 
and Captain Dick put a wedding-ring on her finger — the ring 
she has never worn. Here is the summer-house where she 
crouched in her agony of shame, and heard the truth from 
merciless lips. Here is his room, or the room that used to 
be his — it is Mr. Dane Fanshawe's now — and the litter of 
pipes of all sorts, the litter of side-arms and fire-arms of all 
nations, the litter of books, scientific, mathematical, with 
here and there a Dickens, or a Thackeray, or an Irving 
peeping out — have all been swept away to the attic. Only 
Eleanor Charlton's portrait, oddly enough, remains, the head 
in crayons, brought from Shaddeck Light. It hangs over 
the mantel, and smiles with grave sweetness on the slumbers 
of the man Dot delights to honor. Vera visits the room 
shortly after her arrival, a muscular chamber-maid playing 
propriety and making the bed, and looks at it musingly. 
Poor Nelly, gentle Nelly, patient Nelly, where is she now ? 
When last Vera heard from her she had gone with a family 
to travel in Europe, and perhaps has not returned. She 
stands abstractedly gazing at the picture, and, still before 
it, Mr. Dane Fanshawe finds her, as he unexpectedly 
appears. 

11 1 thoight you had gone with Dot," Vera says, with • 



S|4 "LOVE TOOK UP 1MB QLAMS OF TUML* 

nervous little laugh, and moving away. " Shall I apologia 
for this intrusion ? " 

" Not at all — my apartment is honored. I am going with 
Dot — I mean Mrs. Charlton — but I forgot my gloves. Yon 
are looking at that portrait?" he says, suddenly. "Yoi 
knew her ?" 

" O, very well— dear, quiet, pretty Eleanor I Is it not a 
sweet (ace, Mr. Fanshawe ? " 

He does not answer at once. He stands and looks at it, 
and somethiug like a moody shade darkens his face. 

" It is very well done," he says, after that pause. M Who 
was the artist ? " 

44 An amateur, I believe," Vera answers, moving to the 
door. " Yes, it is very like." 

" 1 wonder why they left it here ? " 

Something odd in his tone makes her look at him. His 
bee is generally most gracefully blank of all expression, but 
at present it wears an expression that puzzles Vera. 

" Because, I suppose, it seemed to belong here of right. 
The gentleman who sketched it lodged in this room. If you 
object to it, Betsy can take it away — I should very much 
like to have it" 

" By no means," he says, hastily ; " I prefer to see it 
here. A pretty bee, on Bristol board or off, is always a de- 
sirable possession. And I like the room as Mrs. Charlton 
has arranged it" 

Vera frowns, and goes. His old manner has quite re- 
turned, and she does not like that old manner nor the man 
himself, He is here with half a dozen other summer guests, 
but he is here with a difference. She knows all ; the mar- 
riage is to take place in September, and she is jealous and 
provoked. The first shock of surprise is over, but she can* 
not reconcile herself to it Why need Dot marry ? Why 
car they two not live together all their lives, and be all in all 
to each other, without any obnoxious husbands coming k* 



••LOVE TOOT UP THM GLASS OF TIME." *S5 

tween ? And if he were the right sort of a man, a manly 
man, not an idle vauritn, caring only lor Dot's fortune 1 
Vera has an image in her mind, her "man of men/' once and 
always, and very unlike this languid, handsome dandy. . To 
think of Dot's falling in love with a perfumed coxcomb, with 
golden locks, parted down the middle, eyes that look half 
asleep, and an everlasting lassitude and weariness upon him 
that makes her long to box his ears I 

" I wonder if a sound box on the ear would rouse him ? " 
she thinks, irritably ; "we would both be happier and better 
if I could administer it What can Dot see in a scented fop 
like that ? • 

Dot sees in him not a whit more than there is to see — his 
thoughts are her thoughts, his world her world, his intellect 
hers. She idealizes him not at all, but he suits her, And 
she means to marry him. 

" Does he know about the will?" Vera asks one day; 
"about the estate going to-— Captain Ffrench at — your — 
when you " 

"Not" Dora says, sharply. "Why should I tell 
him ? What a fool I was, to be sure, in mat, as in the other 
thing." 

" I think he ought to know," Vera says, slowly. 

"And why ? It is no business of his. I am rich, and I 
am going to marry him — that is enough for him. Do you 
think he is inarrying me for my money ? ' 

Vera is silent— there are times when truth need not be 
put in words. 

" He is not I " Dora exclaims, irritably ; " he is no for- 
tune-hunter. And if he is, it serves him right to — not to 
know. I shall not tell him. Let him find out for himsel£" 

Mr. Fanshawe does find out, and very quickly, naturally, 
after the marriage. He makes the discovery during the 
honey-moon trip, and what he thinks his bride knows not ; 
that expressionless face of nil stands him in good stead. He 



*$6 -LOVE TOOK UP THE GLASS OF TIME.* 

b too indolent to exercise himself mnch over the inevitable 
at any time. 

44 1 must make all the more hay while the ion shines," he 
thinks, if he thinks at alL 44 She is rich, and she Is my wife 
now. I do not think she is likely to live long, and after that 
— well, after mat, I shall be able to say at least, 4 Come 
what will, I have been blessed.' If she will have luxuries 
she must pay for them." 

This sounds heartless, put into words, but Mr. Dane Fan- 
shawe is by no means a heartless sort of fellow — not robustly 
bad indeed, in any way, not unkind, not inattentive, not, for 
the matter of that, without a sort of liking for the rich widow 
he has made his wife. That is to say at first, for with time 
comes change. Dora is exacting, and Dane is not disposed 
to inconvenience himself to please her. He spends too 
much money, he stays out too late, he comes home in the 
small hours, reeking of cigars and wine, he gives champagne 
suppers, he plays monte and faro, he gambles horribly m 
fact He has just one passion outside his intense love of 
self— gambling. She is not long in finding it out, and money 
he will have. Love spreads his rosy pinions and takes to 
flight There are scenes, recriminations, tears, hysterics, in 
the nuptial chamber. Dora scolds shrilly, passionately; 
calls him a brute, stamps that tiny foot of hers, and protests 
she will desert him, mil divorce him, hates him, wishes she 
had bsen dead before she ever married him. Mr, Fanshawe 
listens, coolly sometimes, smilingly often, pleasantly always, 
aad when very much disguised in— cigars — laughs, a feeble, 
maudlin laugh, or sits down on the side of the bed and shed* 
tears, or drops off, in a limp and imbecile way, asleep wrra 
his boots on, according to the strength and quantity of the— 
cigars. But these are the intervals. For months logethef 
sometimes things go smoothly, and Mr. Fanshawe is the 
lazily-graceful, languidly-agreeable gentleman of tourist day* 
as polite to Dora as though she were some other man's wife 



X 



*LOTR TOOT OP TOM GLASS OF TTME. m 2$f 

And through it all Mrs. Fanahawe hides the disgraceful truth 
from her sister. Verm has always disliked die man and the 
marriage, and that " I told you so " look is about the most 
disconcerting any human face can wear. Dora has a pro- 
found respect for her stately sister, so sensible always, as 
sensible indeed as though she were not a pretty woman, an<? 
who does not look as though, under any combination of cir 
cumstances, late hours, or heady cigars, she could scold, or 
stamp, or go into hysterics. She is very much admired ir 
Washington society, that first winter ; has a number of ad- 
mirers, and one offer. They go to Europe in the spring — Vera 
is a good American, but she feels she must see Paris before she 
dies — must see Venice, Naples, Vienna, Rome — most of all 
Rome. It is the dream of her life, and Dora indulges her. 
Dora indulges her in all things ; that old sisterly lore, the one 
pure, unselfish thing in Dora's meagre, selfish life, is stronger 
than ever. It rests and comforts her to come to Vera after one 
of these stormy scenes with her indifferent husband. Her 
health is failing, too, she needs travel and change ; the heart 
trouble of her youth is more troublesome than ever. So 
they go, and Vera, happier than most of us, has the desire 
of her heart, and does not find it turn to dust and ashes in 
her mouth. Paris, Venice, Rome, she sees them all — she 
grows brighter, healthier, handsomer, every day. If the 
memory of the man to whom she is married ever crosses her 
thoughts Dora does not know it. She never speaks of him. 
But taking up a home paper one day she reads there c£ the 
capture of Las Tunas, and among the list of mortally wounded 
is the name of Captain Richard Ffrench. He had fought 
like a lion, and had fallen with a bullet through the heart. 

There is a grand ball to be that night, and a superb toiet 
has come home for Vera, but she does not wear it, does not 
go. She is deadly pale when Dora meets her next, but if 
she suffers she makes little sign. She goes on with her life 
teat the same, and hides her heart jealously from all At 



S$I AT DAWM OF DAY. 

world But the next mail contradicts the report — k is not 
death, only a bad wound — a ball through the lung, not the 
heart Richard Ffrench is not dead, or going to die. Don 
watches her with great interest and curiosity, but is baffled. 
Dying or living, they can hardly be more asunder than they 
are ; but why did he not die ? It would be so much more 
comfortable every way I 

In the spring of the second year they return to London, 
intending to remain until July, and then go home. And this 
June night — morning rather — Dora Fanshawe stands smiling 
under the chandelier, and holding out one diamond-ringed 
band to Colonel Richard Caryl Ffrench. 




CHAPTER IV. 

AT DAWM OF DAT. 

|HE comes trailing her rich dress over the carpet, 
and holding out her jewelled hand " in her lovely 
silken murmur, like an angel clad with wings," he 
thinks, some misty memory of his Browning reading in the 
old Eleanor Charlton days, returning to him. Only after all, 
Dot is not the sort of little woman in any attire to suggest 
angelic metaphor — rather she is like an opera fairy in that 
shining pink silk, and all those milky pearl ornaments. He 
wonders as he looks at her — such ripples and ringlets, and 
twists and puffs of fluffy gold hair 1 On whose head did it all 
grow? Such glimmering small shoulders, haH vailed in 
frosty lace ; such a dazzling small face, all snow-white and 
rose-red ; mch gleaming blue eyes, and such a thin, thin 
little hand He could span the fragi)* (airy with one han<^ 
k sisniH to him — such an old fairy, too, when one is m 



AT PAWN mm DAY. HP 

Out of hit dark, wondering eyes a sadden compassion look*. 
Poor little Dot I It is a hard life* this treadmill of fashion, 
and it is telling on her. And is Vera a younger copy of 
this, he wonders, as he holds for a second those tiny, ringed 
fingers, and if so what a pity, what a pity I 

For Dora, she looks upon the stately figure of a tall oft 
cer in undress uniform — it has been in order, it seems, to be 
semi-military to-night; she looks at the "burnt sienna" 
complexion, the dark, resolute eyes — but from the fixed gaxf 
of these latter rather shrinks. They give her, they always 
did give her, an uncomfortable sense of being transparent as 
clear glass to this man ; they seem to look straight through 
the pink and white so artistically laid on, and read the 
empty heart, the hard little soul below. He disconcerts her 
before ae has opened his lips, but she laughs gayly, and 
greets b*m after the airy fashion he remembers so well. 

* Evct so many apologies for interrupting your gay party, 
and at this hour. How surprised you must have been at 
receiving my card. And at three in the morning I As if it 
were a matter of life and death. But you know how im- 
pulsive I always was, and I grow worse every day. And 
really, I wanted to see you so much. Take a seat." 

She waves him gracefully to a chair, and sinks into an- 
other, the pink silk dropping into flowing folds, and the point 
of a tiny kidded foot peeping out effectively. 

" Let me see — it is two, yes, three years, actually three, 
srince I saw you last You do not change much with the 
revolving seasons, Captain — I beg your pardon — Colonel 
Ffrench. We read all about that, you know — your bravery, 
and your wounds, and your promotion. Ah I how terrible 
it was — the wounds I mean. Report said you were dead. 
And then, again, we read of your being surrounded, and cap- 
tured, after prodigies of valor, and sent a prisoner to the 
Moro. And how once you were sentenced to be shot as 
daybreak, and only were rescued at the eleventh bout. W# 



* 



/ 



W6* AT MUWM 0T DAT. 

know aO tbout you, you se« ; we nave Jbilowed yoa duaasjl 
all your deeds of ' derring da 9 What a charmed life yo* 
mutt bear, Colonel Ffrench." 

He smiles ever so slightly. She runs on so rapidly that 
she gives him no time to speak, even if he were so inclined. 

u I only found you out this afternoon through a paragraph 
in the Times,* she continues* " How long is it since yoo 
tame to London ? " 

"Three days." 

" Did you know we were here ? But of coarse you did 
not Do you remain long in England ? M 

" That is uncertain." 

His curt replies are in contrast to her easy volubility, bat 
they do not disconcert her. She has got over her first awk. 
wardness, and is quite herself once more. 

" You return to Cuba, I suppose ? Ah 1 you fire-eaters 
are never satisfied away from the field of glory. And how 
about that shot through the lungs ? Quite convalescent, are 
you not ? So far as appearances go, I think I never saw 
you looking better." 

It is a compliment he feels he cannot honestly return. 
Certainly those steadfast eves of the Cuban colonel see 
more than Mrs. Fanshawe intends they shall see — paint, 
powder, perfume, penciled brows, darkened eyes, false hair, 
false shape, false tongue, false heart — he sees alL And 
Vera is like this — poor little Vera ! 

" You did not know we were here — how could you ? Our 
names would tell you nothing. To think you should be our 
ray next door neighbor I how odd. Did you visit New 
York before crossing over ? " 

"I did not" 

It is as hard to extort an answer from him as though he 
were in a witness-box, and she the counsel for the other) 
side But she will make him speak before she is done with 



AT DAW* 0* DAT. 9b 

44 Then you have not heard of my maniqgtF" 

She smiles with perfect ease as she says it, and plays co 
quettishly with her fan. He looks at her, bat not in sw 
prise. 

" Your marriage, Mrs. Charlton M 

" Ah I " Dora laughs. " I knew you had not Mrs. Fan- 
•hawe, please — Mrs. Dane Fanshawe. It is nearly two yean 
ago now, and we were married in New York. I sent yoo 
cards, but of course you did not get your mails regularly, 
out there among all that fighting. It is late in the day for 
congratulations, but they never come amiss." 

" You have my best wishes for your happiness, Mis. Fan- 
shawe." 

" Almost immediately after our marriage we came abroad, 
and have been travelling ever since. We are merely stop- 
ping here for a few weeks of the season, and— and because 
we cannot induce Vera to leave." 

Her name has been spoken at last But Colonel Ffrench 
takes it very calmly. He does not speak — he sits quietly, 
and a little coldly, waiting for what is to come. He has 
always distrusted this woman ; he distrusts her more than 
ever to-night 

" V<Mca is with us, of course, and — need I say it ? — ft is 
entirely on her account that I have asked for this interview. 
Living in the same hotel, it is quite impossible but that you 
and she shall speedily meet. And before that meeting takes 
place, for her sake, for your own, it is best I should speak 
to you." 

She is wanning to her work. He is not a very promising 
looking subject, as he sits there with that impassive counte- 
nance, but Dora's faith in herself and her strategic abilities is 
boundless. She is one of the class to whom all success is 
possible, because they believe in themselves. She is resolved, 
by fair means or foul, to give Vera back her freedom. If 
sisteily tact, and a few sisterly lies, can do it she is resolved 



16S AT ZUWM Of DAT. 

that Vera shall be Lady Talbot This man k the only <K* 
stacle in the way, and th*s man, though he were twice as big, 
and brown, and determined-looking, shall soon be an obstacle 
lemovecL 

" Colonel Ffrench," she says, leaning a little forwaid, and 
tapping emphatically with her fan, " six years ago a great 
mistake was made, one that I have never ceased to regret. 
The fault was mine, I freely admit that All the same, 
it was a horrible mistake, but I trust not an irreparable 
one." 

She pauses, but the calm, attentive face before her is im- 
passive as a handsome mask. What she has said needs no 
reply, and receives vone. 

" From the day of that marriage Vera changed — from a 
frolicsome, heedless child she became silent, Jlspkited, almost 
moody. She had fancied you in a wild, childish fashion, as 
little girls almost always do fancy young men. She consented 
heedlessly to the marriage, and the moment it was over re- 
pented of it. That repentance has deepened with every 
passing year. She refused to write to you, though I urged 
her to do so ; she refused to see you on your return from 
Honduras ; she has never — no, not once — spoken your name 
voluntarily in my hearing since that time. Unjust to you 
this undoubtedly is, but women do not reason, you know, 
they act from their feelings. And Vera's feelings, so far as 
you are concerned, and so far as I can read them, for she is 
sensitively secret on this point, have undergone a total re- 
vulsion. From a girl's foolish fancy they have changed to a 
woman's unreasoning aversion. Pardon the ward, but the 
truth is always best" 

The shadow of a smile dawns and fades on the soldierly 
face. Truth from the lips of this glib little liar ! Slight as it 
is, Dora's quick eyes catch it, and she bristles up defiantly 
at once. She sits very erect, her gleaming blue eyes flash' 
ing upon him. 



AT DAWN OF DAT. *6j 

"Pardon me, Colonel Ffrench, do yen dotdt what I tell 
you? Ifso— — " 

11 Pray go on, Mrs. Charl — , excuse uic, Mrs. Fanshawe* 
Why should I doubt it ? it is perfectly natural, and precisely 
what was to be expected. So Vera detests me. Ah 1 I am 
sorry for that." 

" Detest is perhaps too strong a word ; her liking changed 
to dislike, to intense annoyance at finding herself bound, ben 
gre mal gre 9 to a man she did not care for. But it is only of 
late " 

Dora breaks off in pretty embarrassment — the subject is 
evidently growing delicate. Colonel Ffrench watches her, 
and despite his seriousness, there is an unmistakable gleam 
of amusement in his eyes. The farce is well played, but what 
a farce it is I 

" I scarcely know how to go on," pursues Dora, that kit- 
tenish confusion still upon her, " the subject is so— is so— 
Colonel Ffrench, you must not blame my sister too much ; 
remember, our feelings are not under our control ( to love or 
not to love/ And Vera is so young, so attractive, so——" 

" Pray do not distress yourself to find excuses. Mrs. 
Fanshawe," says Colonel Ffrench coolly. "My wife has 
fallen in love with another man — that is what you wish me to 
understand, I think ? " 

She laughs a short, uneasy, angry laugh 

" You put it in plain English at least ; but that was always 
one of your virtues, I remember. Yes, Colonel Ffrench, 
unconsciously to herself, with pain, with remorse, with fear 
for the future, Vera's heart has gone from her— her woman's 
heart, for the first time." 

" Let us hope at least it has gone into worthy keeping. 
Might one ask the name of one's favored rival ? " 

44 Presently— -all that in time. Wcul 1 that every husband 
were as amenable to reason as you, my tear colonel ! But, 
then, every husband does not marry avd desert hU bride 



J64 AT DAW* OF DAY. 

tmder the same exceptional circumstances. She hat gives 
her lore to one in every way worthy the gift, to one who 
centres in himself high rank, great wealth, ancient lineage* 
talent, and title." 

44 Title I " interrupts Richard Ffrench, and smiles. " You 
tank the gentleman's perfections in the order of ecclesiasti- 
cal processions, I see — the greatest comes last" 

44 And/' goes on Mrs. Fanshawe, the angry glitter deepen- 
ing in her eyes, " to one who loves her truly, deeply, greatly. 
There is but one obstacle to their perfect happiness, and 

44 A by no means uncommon one, I believe, in those up- 
fitted circles — an obnoxious husband All this time, my 
dear madam, I sit in ignorance of the name of this paragon-* 
this rich, highly born, highly bred, titled gentleman who as- 
pires to the hand — no — the heart, of the lady at present my 
wife.* 

11 To both hand and heart, Colonel Ffrench, with your per- 
mission. The gentleman is Sir Beltram Talbot, Baronet; 
his devotion to my sister has been from the first the talk of 
the town." 

" Ah 1 and she returns this very ardent devotion, you tell 
me ? And I am in the way. But to so clever a lady as 
yourself, Mrs. Fanshawe, what does an obstacle more or less 
signify ? I am in your hands. What am I to do ? You 
made this match — how do you propose to unmake it ? " 

44 Sir, if you treat this subject as a jest " 

44 Not at all; I am profoundly in earnest. Far be it 
from me to show unseemly levity where the happiness of a 
young, rich, and titled heart is concerned I And Vera's 
welfare — for old time's sake — is necessarily dear to me. I 
merely ask for information." 

44 There is such a thing as divorce," begins Dora, but she 
has the grace to redden nndcr her rouge; "the marriage 
was so exceptional, and and considering everything — the 



AT BAWN OF DAY. *•$ 

years of jronr absenc e dit trtm^ perhaps we mig)it call 
it " 

" It will be the better word certauly," he says, with gravity, 
" for a divorce court Pardon me — is this your idea, Mrs, 
Fanshawe, or Vera's ? " 

"Vera has grown up with some very strange ideas," 
returns Dora, with acerbity; "caught from her Ursuline 
nuns, I suppose. It is not Vera's. She has notions of duty, 
and the sanctity of the marriage tie, and all that — romantic 
and nonsensical 1 It was a mistake to shut her up for three 
years in a convent ; I cannot imagine where else she can 
have acquired them." 

" It is indeed singular, and with the benefit since of your 
excellent training, too. On the whole, though, it is a relid 
to hear she has those romantic and nonsensical ideas. They 
are old-fashioned, I am aware, and almost obsolete in fash- 
ionable life ; but I am such an old-fashioned fellow myself 
that I believe I prefer them. Still, no doubt you can talk 
her into a more advanced and practical frame of mind before 
long/' 

" I shall certainly do my best," says Dora, with dignity. 
" She shall not sacrifice her life for a sentiment As the 
wife of Sir Beltram Talbot she will be a perfectly happy 
woman ; as your wife — what will she be, Colonel Ffrench? 
A poor woman, an unloved wife, an unloving wife, a widow 
during the best years of her life, in the abnormal and doubt- 
ful position a woman always holds who is separated from her 
husband. Yet such are the notions she has imbibed that I 
am positive if you went to her to-morrow and claimed her as 
your wife she would go with you. Such are her stringent 
ideas of duty that she would go with you loyally though it 
broke her heart But will you demand this sacrifice, Richard 
Ffrench ? " 

He is grave enough now ; the amused gleam has left hig 
^yes, the sarcastic curl his lips. 



268 AT DAWN OP DAT. 

strong one. Then came that night at Shaddeck, and tin 
way was made easy. I knew yon had Quixotic nations of 
honor and all that, and simply worked on them. Mrs. 
Charlton abetted me through sheer malevolence, and — yos 
married Vera. My motive was to remain at Charlton ; as 
the sister of its mistress I could do so. If you had remained 
at home, instead of running off oq that wild-goose chase to 
Central America, a sister of its mistress I would be to this 
day, and no more. Mr. Charlton would never have married 
me had you not forsaken him, but you did forsake him, and 
— never mind why — he married me. How could I foretell 
you would go — how could I forecast he would make me his 
wife and heiress t Could I, rest assured you would never 
have been troubled with all that talk and tears, and Vera 
would still be free. But I acted for the best — I never was 
among the prophets. As it is, I regret my mistake, and 
will do all I can to set it right It will be best for you, as 
well as Vera, to get your freedom back — some day I pre- 
sume even you may many again. There ! for once I have 
told the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth." 

He rises. Of the profound disgust he feels his face tells 
nothing, but he must go, or stifle. Is it the heavy pastilles 
that perfume the room, or odor of ess. bouquet that hangs 
about her, or the unwomanly confession she has made, that 
suffocates him ? 

" Are you going ? You will say nothing of this to Vera 
should you meet. She does not wish to meet you, remem- 
ber that, but if you ask for an interview she will grant 
it On the whole, perhaps, it will be better not to ask for 
it" 

He replies nothing, but turns to the doar. Dora rises in 
turn, and followa 

"You will not interfere, then, in the matter sf the dl 
vorce?" anxiously. 

w I have said so." 



AT DAW* OF DAY. *6g 



"And job will make no claim upon her? Influence 

In no way at all ? • 

" In no way at all" 

"We go into lodgings to-morrow," Mrs. Fanshawe com* 
ttaraes. " Perhaps, after all, she may never know yon are 
here. It would be so much better. Very many thanks for 
granting me this interview, and your generous renunciation 
of all claims. But generosity was always one of your snoa* 
striking traits, I remember." 

"Good-morning, Mrs. Fanshawe. n 

" Good-morning, Colonel Ffrench. What ! will you not 
shake hands ? Should you meet Vera, remember all this is 
strictly entre nous. Good-morning, and good-by." 

He escapes at last, and makes his way down-stairs and 
out, to where a clammy morning fog wraps the world, and a 
sky like drab paper hangs dismally over London. It is 
dawn, a dawn of mist and darkness and coming rain, but h 
is fresher, purer, clearer than the sweet, fetid atmosphere he 
has been breathing. He lights a cigar to clear away the 
vapors, and help him to see daylight. 

"In love with Sir Beltram Talbot, and married to me 
Wooed by a baronet, and wedded to a penniless soldier a! 
fortune. A woman without womanly truth, or delicacy, « 
honor. Ay to nil my poor little Vera, it is bard lines tm 



n 



arc A SUKURM AFTMMNOOW* 




CHAPTER ▼. 

A SUMMER AITBUOaX. 

|H£ threatening rain is bat a threat Wfcen Mr* 
Fanshawe opens her eyes on this mortal fife, th* 
sun is slanting in long golden bars through the 
closed Venetians. It is high noon, Mrs. Fanshawe's usual 
time for rising. It was four this morning when she went to 
oed ; it is almost always four when she goes to bed, and even 
at that hour, and eren with the aid of a chloral punch, slum- 
ber does not always come. For she has her worries, this 
poor little Dora ; she is troubled and anxious about many 
things, more so perhaps than in the old days, faint as a dream 
now, in the show-rooms in New York. There is her husband 
— her brows contract always when she thinks of him, and the 
fine lines she hates to see deepen. There is her health— in 
the garish morning light you may see that the fair, blonde 
skin is growing dull and sallow, you may see sharp little 
cheek bones, and dark-circled, deep-sunken blue eyes. Dora, 
who half a dozen years ago never shrunk from the brightest, 
most searching sunshine, shrinks from it now with absolute 
terror — it is always truest kindness to place half the room be- 
tween yourself and her when you talk. There is Vera and 
her future which she has marred, but not irretrievably marred 
it may be. With a little judicious weaving of the web, a little 
judicious talk with her sister, a few insidious hints thrown out, 
her womanly pride aroused, all may yet be welL Latent in 
Dora's mind is the unpleasant conviction that Vera the wo- 
man cares as much, cares more for Richard Ffrench than 
Vera the child. From first to last he has been her hero, and 
now that he is her husband — and exactly the wt of man a 



A SUMMER AFTlUUrOOM. Jf 1 

girl of Vera s stamp is most certain to admire— why, her task 
will be no child's play. In all these years it has been the 
rarest of rare things for Vera to speak of him, and no symp- 
tom could be more dangerous — it shows he has never been 
out of her thoughts, and is too tender, too sacred a subject to 
be profaned by words. Now he is here, and they will meett 
and with the child's sentimental ideas of wifely love and Juty, 
too— and Sir Beltram's place down there in the green heart 
of rustic England is more like one's dream of paradise than 
an every-day baronet's country seat, and his magnificent 
rent-roll — so old a family, too, every one knows the pedigree 
of a Talbot — and his passion for Vera is the talk of the town. 
All London considers it a settled thing. And to think — to 
think a foolish act of hers should stand in the way of all that 
It is true she did it for the best — how was she to foretell that 
Mr. Charlton would marry her, and be so easily influenced in 
the matter of the will ? To-day Richard Ffrench is without 
fortune or home to offer his wife — a name he has, it is true ; 
but what is in a name? It is her duty — Dora sees it clearly, 
sitting under the hands of her maid — her sisterly duty to undo 
what she has done. She warms to her work as she thinks of 
it, its very difficulties stimulate her — a little skilful manoeuv- 
ring, a few clever little fictions, with just the least grain of 
truth for groundwork in her ear, and the thing is done. Vera 
is proud — is acutely, is morbidly sensitive about her marriage,, 
and would die sooner than let him know she still cared for 
him. It is the only thing she can count upon — that pride ; 
she will work on it, and he has promised not to interfere. She 
so seldom fails in anything she resolutely sets her heart on — 
she will not fail now. There will be that quiet divorce in 
some out-of-the-way State, no scandal, no publicity. Or 
perhaps Ffrench may return to Cuba, and there are always 
the chances of war — no man can carry a charmed life forever. 
It would be even better, as he himself said, than the divorce. 
Dora has no idea of being blood-thirsty at all, but she 



*7* A MWMMMM APTMMN04M. 

and calmly counts the possibilities of Rfchaiti Ffrench being 
shot over there— sighs for it indeed while Fefician does her 
hair. It would simplify matters so ! And then there would 
be a marriage with which New York would ring, and next year, 
a tall, dark-eyed, Spanish-looking Lady Talbot would be pre- 
sented at court 

" A note for madams/ 9 says Felician, answering a tap at 
the door, and Dora's dream of the future fades out suddenly, 
and she comes back with a start to the present The note is 
b her husband's hand and is a careless line to say he is not 
to be expected to do escort duty that afternoon. He is going 
with a party of Americans— old friends of his — nobody his 
wife would care about — to Hampton Court, and he is hen, 
D. F. 

A frown knits together Mrs. Fanshawe's forehead. It is a 
common enough thing — it is altogether too common a thing 
for Mr. Dane Fanshawe to absent himself at the last mo- 
ment from dancing attendance on his wife and sister-in-law. 
A party of Americans to Hampton Court ! She crushes 
the note viciously and flings it from her; she does not 
believe one word of it. Innocent sight-seeing is not much 
in Dane Fanshawe's line — it is so likely he will spend all 
this long, warm afternoon staring at the dim old court 
beauties, hanging there in the dreary palace rooms. Hii 
wife knows better, and she forgets her sister, and her plotting*, 
and her eyes flash fire. Every day he neglects her more and 
more, and his marked attentions in other quarters — does she 
not see it all ? Last night he left her at the opera, and has 
not since returned. Hampton Court indeed 1 Dora knows 
better, and a passion of impotent, jealous wrath sweeps 
through her. As if gambling were not bad enough, but that 
this last insult must be offered ! Neglecting the wife to whom 
he owes everything, and devoting himself to the wives of 
other men I A fool she may have shown herself in her sis* 
tec's marriage, bat no* half so great a fool as in hex own. 



A SVMMER AFTERNOON. Jf J 



" Freedom — men's homage — happiness — what did I 
in him to resign all that for his sake?" she thinks, bitterly. 
"Truly, while I am about the divorce business it might be ai 
well to seek for two. It will come to it some day. Hi* 
gambling debts I will not pay, his insolent neglect I will not 
bear. Let him look to it, if he tries me too far 1 " 

Her maid brings her breakfast— chocolate, a roll, and 
a little bird. Mrs. Fanshawe has no appetite ; that is why 
perhaps, she grows so fearfully thin. All the art of dress and 
corset maker is required to hide it, and even made up with 
the best skill of these artists, and an accomplished Paris 
maid, used to making the most of very little, it is a small, 
fragile-looking creature she sees in the mirror. She grows 
worn and old — a shudder creeps all over her small body as 
she realizes it It never comes home to her so sharply as 
when she stands beside Vera, so fresh, so strong, so full of life, 
so beautiful in her young vitality. That reminds her — where 
is Vera ? Her good-morning kiss generally awakes Dora from 
her feverish forenoon slumbers, but it is now one and she has 
not appeared. She glances languidly at Fglician and inquires. 

" Mats, madame. Mademoiselle Vera departed more than 
two hours ago with the groom, for her morning canter in the 
park, and has not yet returned." 

This is nothing new, and Dora thinks no more about it 
But something new has occurred during that morning canter 
along the road after all. As she sweeps along, her servant 
behind her, glancing carelessly at the faces along the railing, 
Vera suddenly sees one that sends the blood with a cold, 
startled rush to her heart It is the face of a tall, sunburned, 
soldierly man, leaning lightly against the rail, and talking 
with two or three others. 

Their eyes meet — in his, surprised admiration, but no rec- 
ognition ■ in hers — but those brilliant eyes keep their owner*! 
secrets well One of the men lifts his bat as she flashes by 
and looks after her with a smile. 



2?4 4 SUMMER „ttMMN0OM. 

"The handsomest woman in London,* he says. " In all 
jrour wanderings, under Oriental and Occidental sons, Colo- 
nel Ffrench, you must have seen some beautiful faces 
Have you ever seen fairer than that ? ' 

" She is a pretty woman, and she rides well," is the Cuban 
colonel's careless answer, " and much more like a Spanish 
Dofia than one of your fair countrywomen." 

"She is not my countrywoman; she is yours, I fancy. 
Well, and how did you manage to give your guerrillas the slip, 
colonel ? It must have been an uncommonly close finish." 

He resumes his interrupted anecdote, and Vera quits the 
park, and returns home. He does not know her. It gives 
her a pang, so keen, so hot, so sharp, that she is indignant 
with herself! He does not know her, her very face is blotted 
out of his memory ; while she — meet him how, when, or 
*here she might — she knows she would instantly recognise 
him. She has changed, it is true ; six years have wonder* 
fully transformed her, and yet, if he cared for her, if he ever 
had cared for her, would not some subtle intuition tell him it 
was she ? He has not altered much ; the deep gray eyes 
look graver, she thinks, than of old ; he is browner, more 
resolute, and more soldier-like than the Captain Dick of 
Shaddeck Light. Old days, old thoughts, old memories, 
crowd back upon her — she lives over again that brief bright 
summer that transformed her whole life. That wild August 
night, that night of lightning and rain, returns to her; 
that night she can never forget, that she would blot forever 
from her life if she could, is before her. To atone for her 
folly, driven to it by Dora, he made her his wife, despising 
her all the while, and now he is here, and he looks in her 
face with calm, unconscious, unrecognizing eyes. Her 
heart has not ceased its quickened beating when she stands 
before her sister, and Mrs. Fanshawe's searching eyes read 
something more than usual in the excited gleam *f Vest's 
dark eyes. 



A SUMMER AFTEXNOOK *7$ 

* You have been in the park," she says. " a don't see 
that it has benefited you much. You are pale, and your 
eyes look strangely. Has anything happened ? " 

" Nothing has happened," Vera answers, a little tremor in 
the clear voice. " It is time to go and dress for the gardea 
party, I suppose. I wish we were not due, Dot— must we 
really go ? " 

" Since when haw it become a grievance to go to garden 
parties, my dear," inquires Dora. " If my memory serves, 
no longer ago than yesterday you were looking forward with 
pleasure to an afternoon spent in Lady Hammerton's lovely 
gardens. And Sir Beltram is sure to be there." 

Vera turns away, the color rising over her dark face. 

"Dora," she says, imperiously, "understand me! Once 
for all, I want you to drop the subject of Sir Beltram Talbot 
If I were free, it would still be — but I am not free — who 
should remember that better than you ? " 

It is the first time in all these years, that anything like a 
reproach has passed Vera's lips. But she is full of irritated' 
pain, longing, impatience — she hardly knows what, and the 
mention of the baronefs name is as "vinegar upon nitre." 
Dora shrugs her shoulders. 

" The more's the pity ; it was a horrible blunder, but even 
the best of us will make blunders. As to your freedom, 
why, freedom is a thing that may be regained. Vera/' she 
Isans forward, " do you know who is here ? " 

There is a pause. Vera is standing, her back turned, look- 
ing out at the sun-lit London street. 

" Do you know who is here ? " Mrs. Fanshawe repeats. 

u Yes, Dot, I know." 

The answer is very low, the face Dora cannot see. There 
b another momentary pause. Dora is rather surprised. 

" Since when have you known ? " 

u Since yesterday afternoon, before we went to drive. I 
Have seen him twire." 



%J6 A SUMMBX AFTERNOON. 

Once more a pause. " So," Dora thinks, " tne mankr to 
out And shs has seen him twice. Now I wonder if I aa 
going to have more trouble than I expected with this busi- 
ness. Vera ? " 

"Yes, I hear." 

"Turn round then; I hate talking to people's back* 
Where have you seen Colonel Ffrench ? " 

" Once — a glimpse — yesterday in passing his room, with* 
out knowing it was he, and this morning in Hyde Park." 

" Did he see you f * 

"Yes." 

" Did he know you ? " 

" No 1 " says Vera, and turns abruptly away once again. 

Dora sits silent. Shall she speak now ? She glances at 
her watch — after two— and they have to dress. No, there m 
no time. 

"Vera," she says, and rises and goes over to her sister 
and clasps her hands on her shoulder, u tell me this — yon 
never used to have secrets from Dot— do you still care for 
Richard Ffrench ? " 

But Vera frees herself turning very pale. 

"Pardon me, Dot," she answers, coldly and proudly; 
" that is a question even you have no right to ask, a question 
I certainly shall not answer. What is done is done — I have 
never reproached you for your share in it, and I never mean 
to. You acted for the best, I am sure. But one thing, two 
things I must exact — that you will let me alone about Sir 
Beltran* Talbot, whom from first to last I have never by one 
word o look encouraged, and that you will from this hour 
diop a?l interference between Richard Ffrench and me. On 
this I insist, and you will pardon me, Dot, if / seem to speak 
harshly. Harsh I have no wish to be, decisive I must be, 
I know it was you who forced him — against his will — to 
marry me, a poor little ignorant half-grown girl, too young 
and far too much of a child, to understand either your 



A SUMMER AFTEJLXOON. Iff 

lives or his. Oh ! Dot, Dot, why did you do it ? I turn hot 
with shame from head to foot when I think of it. But all 
that is past ; I am no longer too young or too ignorant to 
judge for myself, to decide for myself and I say to you, inter- 
fere no more. Bring about no meeting between Colonel 
Ffrench and me, leave him to himself. If he wishes to seek 
me, if he has anything to say to me, I am to be found ; but 
I tell you honestly, Dot, if you seek him out, or try to influ- 
ence him in any way, I will never, to the last day of my life, 
forgive you." 

She turns to go as she says it Her eyes flash, her voice 
rings ; there is resolute decision in every word she speaks. 
On the threshold she pauses. " When you can spare Feli- 
cian," she says, in a different tone, "send her to me, please ; 
I will be ready in about an hour." 

Then she goes. Dora shrugs her shoulders, and smiles 
sarcastically. 

" High-flown as usual The chance encounter this morn- 
ing has evidently upset her imperial highness, or is it pique 
that he did not recognise her? I foresee I shall have no 
easy matter to manage, and there can be no shadow of doubt 
but that she is as fond of him as ever. But I never fail in 
anything I set my heart on, and I have quite set my heart 
on seeing you Lady Talbot, my dear, ridiculous, tragic Vera, 
and Lady Talbot you yet shall be." 

Something more than an hour after, the sisters are rolling 
along behind a pair of black, high-stepping, silver-harnessed 
horses, to Hammerton Park. Mrs. Dane Fanshawe, under 
her white gossamer veil and rose silk parasol, looks about 
three-and-twenty, some yards off. Miss Martinez in white 
muslin, all delicate needlework and lace, the sort of dress 
which all the gentlemen who see her this afternoon will ex- 
tol for its charming simplicity, and which none but a young 
auchess or an American heiress, could afford to wear, looks 
beautiful, high-bred, ard rather bored All dangerous tcp'ct 



27% A SUMMER AFTEMNOOM 

are ignored, it is not well to begin a garden party on a Jnlf 
afternoon by losing one's temper, and Dora foresees she 
is likely to lose her temper more than once before the off ait % 
Ffrench is adjusted to her liking. On their return she will 
open the siege, and meantime here they are, and here is Sir 
Beltram, with all a lover's eagerness and glad delight in the 
greeting he gives them. Vera bites her lip as she meets 
that glance, and reads the story it so plainly tells. She feels 
pained, angered, humiliated by her false position. She 
seems to herself a living lie, the wife of a man whose name 
she does not bear, who cares nothing for her, who tooks at 
her with cold, unrecognizing eyes. Time, that can help most 
ills, only intensifies this ; ^very day she feels the deception, 
the falsity, the absolute disgrace of her position, more and 
more. That fatal night at Shaddeck, that fatal forced mar- 
riage. For a moment she feels as if it were impossible to 
forgive Dora for what she has done— she breaks off suddenly 
with a great start A man has just passed her, Lady Ham- 
merton on his arm, and she recognizes him instantly — Dr., 
Emil Englehart 

" Do you know him ? n Sir Beltran- asks in surprise ; " he 
is one of the Cuban patriots. They seem to be Lady Ham- 
merton's latest hobby, very dne fellows too— dined with them 
last night, this Dr. Englehart, Colonel Ffrench — Ah V here is 
another, General Lopez. By the by, you are a Cuban, are 
you not, Miss Martinez? Curious I never thought of it 
before." 

" My father was a Cuban," Vera answers, and looks with 
a smile at General Lopez. He is a mahogany-colored little 
officer, the centre of a listening group, and is evidently deep 
in dramatic narrative. He gesticulates wildly as he talks, 
shoulders, eyebrows, hands, all in motion together. 

" The gallant general is fighting his battles over again,* 
says Sir Beltran; "he is rabid in his hatred of Spain and 
Spaniards, is as brave as a small lion, and has had no 



A SUMMER AFTERNOON. Jf9 

of hair-breadth escapes. So have they all, for that matter, 
especially Ffrench, who is more like a paladin of the chivalric 
era, than an every-day soldier. Hear the general" 

" The Spanish warfare upon the Cubans has, throughout 
the contest, been a reproach to civilization in its devilish 
brutality," the Cuban general is excitedly exclaiming; "it 
consists, on the part of the Spaniards, in the fiendish murder 
of any hapless prisoners they may take, brutal, cold-blooded, 
atiocious murder. Witness the massacre of the Virginius. 
Spain will never conquer Cuba ; the very stones will rise and 
fight for freedom, if we lay down our arms." 

" Yes, general," a pensive voice says, "all that is a matter 
of history, but it is a digression at the same time. How did 
you and Colonel Ffrench escape? You were kneeling in 
the trench a moment ago, your eyes bandaged, waiting to be 
%hot, you know." 

There is a slight laugh, and the fiery little general comet 
back to his story. All listen intensely. Vera listens breath- 
lessly. It is a story of dreadful danger, of mortal peril, and 
Richard Ffrench and himself are the heroes, a story of death 
and daring, of cruel suffering and invincible "pluck." And 
as Vera stands and hears, the old passion of pity and tender- 
ness that sent her flying to Shaddeck Light that memorable 
evening so long ago, stirs within her again. An unspeakable 
longing to meet him, to speak to him, to see recognition in 
his eyes, thrills her. Is he here this afternoon ? It seems 
likely enough since Dr. Englehart and General Lopez are. 
What if they meet? 

She breaks off and falls into a day-dream, long, sweet, and 
full of wonderful possibilities. Afar off a band is playing, 
the charming music floats to her, softened by distance, and 
blends with her dreams. Many people move about her, but 
fbr the moment she is quite alone, even the ubiquitous Sir 
Beltran is nowhere to be seen. Presently voices reach he^ 
and she awakes, and moves or. She is passing down a 



StO A SUMMER AFTERNOON. 

narrow walk,, lined with briery rosea, and one of the Vug 
spiky branches catches her dress. She tries to disentangle 
it, but in one hand she holds her parasol, in the other a 
bouquet, and the thorny branch holds her fast The voices 
draw nearer, men's voices. " Permit me," one says, and with 
a slight smile stoops and frees her. He lifts his hat, gives 
her a slight glance, and passes on. 

Is there a fatality in these things? This is twice to-day, 
and this time they are so near that they touch, and still the 
same indifferent glance of a total stranger. Dr. Englehart is 
with him, and it is he that turns and looks back, a puxxled 
expression on his face. 

"Where have I seen eyes like those before?" he says. 
" Who is that young lady, Dick ? " 

" Haven't an idea. I have seen her before, though — this 
morning in the park. A compatriot of ours I believe, and 
handsome enough for a duchess/' 

" Handsomer than any duchess I have seen yet, and — by 

Jove I I have it Ffrench, is it possible you don't see it ." 

He stops and looks back again in sudden excitement " By 
Jove I" he exclaims and laughs, "here is a romance if yon 
like. Dick, does that lady remind you of no one you have 
ever seen ? " 

"Of no one," calmly responds Richard Ffrench. "Of 
whom does she remind^**/" 

" Of your wife, by Jove i of the little black-eyed girl yon 
married six years ago. On my soul, I believe it is the same. 
They are in London, are they not?" 

Richard Ffrench stops and looks at his friend. Then he 
looks back. She has gone on, but is still in sight, walking 
slowly. His dark face pales under its bronze. On the instant 
conviction flashes upon him. Changed, changed out of all 
knowledge, grown from slim girlhood to stately womanhoodi 
bat the eyes, the deep, lustrous, lovely eyes are the 
Can it indeed be Vera ? 



A SUMMER AFTERNOON. 2&1 

He turns to go after her, has gone half a dozen paces* 
when he as suddenly stops. For at the other end of the 
walk, appear Mrs. Dane Fanshawe and Sir Beltran Talbot. 
All that Dora has said to him flashes back ; she hat fallen 
in love with this man, she seeks a divorce to free her from 
kim y that she may marry the baronet See her he must but 
not now, not here. 

He rejoins his friend. Englehart looks at him keenly. 
He thinks Dick has been rather a fool in the affair of his 
marriage ; but as his marriage has never interfered with his 
freedom or made him the less a bon camaradt, he has hith- 
erto overlooked it 

" You — you are sure it is she ? " he asks, hesitatingly, 

" Quite sure." 

M And you did not know until I spoke ?" 

"I did not* 

" Why did you not join her ? Oh 1 I see. Dick, yoat 
little wife has grown into a very beautiful woman." 

a Very beautiful." 

He echoes the words of his friend automatically. He 
feels bewildered. To have met Vera and not knows* her I 
Has she known him ? Yes, he is sure of it He recalls the 
glance she gave him this morning, and just now as he freed 
her dress and turned away. She was very pale, too. And 
she loves Sir Beltran Talbot and wishes to marry him. 
Last night, listening to perfumed, painted Dora Fanrdawe* 
it had seemed to him he did not care — much, but he tj con 
scious of a sharp, angry contraction of the heart now. Dear 
little V era 1 how frankly, fearlessly fond she was of hir 4 once. 
He recalls her as she stood by his side that morning * c Shad- 
deck Light, and defied them all for his sake. He recalls her 
as they parted last, crushed, humiliated, trembling *ith pain 
ind shame. And this is little Vera, this tall, proud-iookin£ 
calm eyed, brilliant woman, who knows him and makes no 
sign. It may be Yen, but not the Vera he hai known. 



a8* A SUMMER NIGHT. 

Colonel Ffrcnch is very distrait and silcnX all the real of 
that day. His eyes wander everywhere, but Aey do not see 
what they search for. For a lion, he roars very little, to the 
silent indignation of Lady Hammerton and her fair friends. 
Ke is so handsome, so like a hero of romance, he has the 
true air noble, they are so generously prepared to admire 
everything he says, and behold 1 he says nothing, is grave, 
silent, preoccupied. The Fanshawe party have gone, he 
discovers presently — Sir Beltran Talbot with them. Miss 
Martinez had a headache, they have left thus early on her 
account Colonel Ffrench listens, and says little, but he 
thinks he understands. It is to avoid him, lest he should 
seek her out, and make a scene, and the baronet perhaps 
discover the truth. Well, they know him very little if they 
fear that. In all these years her image has been with him, 
but always the image of a wild-eyed, black-haired gipsy, the 
Vera who rowed with him in the Nixie, who sang for him in 
the lamp-light, the Vera who cooked his supper at Shaddeck 
Light. He smiles as he tries to reconcile that Vera and 
this — that Vera whom he stands pledged to engage as his 
cook, this Vera, exquisitely dressed, proud, and silent, a fair 
and gracious lady. Little Vera 1 little Vera — his wife, and 
this is the way they meet at last ! 



CHAPTER VI. 

A SUMMER NIGHT. 

IS it chances *t is not Miss Martinez's headache that 
sends the Fanshawe party home, although Miss 
Martinez's sister makes that the pretext for a sud- 
den retreat Superb in her fine young vitality, Vera nevet 
has headaches, nor aches of any sort, but Dora has caught a 




A SUMMER NIGMT. *8j 

flimpfe of a certain sunburned Cuban colonel, and scents 
danger afar off, He here, of all people, and the hero of the 
hour, his name on many lips. He and Vera will meet, and 
that meeting is the very last thing Dora wishes to take 
place. Some time or other it is inevitable, but she Hill get 
ahead of fate itself, she will bring Vera to a proper frame of 
mind, by a little judicious, sisterly chat. So she is seized all 
in a moment with sudden and serious indisposition, lays hold 
of Sir Beltran, and on his arm goes in search of her sister. 
To Dora's eye it is rather a striking tableau that greets her 
as she enters the rose path. Vera coming slowly towards 
her, a sort of cold pallor on the dusky warmth of her (ace, 
and following her, Richard Ffrench. Have they then 
spoken ? has the dreaded meeting taken place ? Is she too 
late? One hurried glance tells her no. He stops at sight 
of them, Vera never turns around, and in a moment she is 
borne oat of danger, but Mrs. Fanshawe does not breathe 
freely until they are safely in the carriage, and driving rap- 
idly homeward. 

They are a silent trio, even Dora can be silent when there 
it nothing to be gained by talking. She lies back among 
die cushions, and under the rose silk parasol watches Vera 
askance. But there is not much to be read in that still, 
thoughtful face — in those large serious eyes — Vera will never 
wear her heart on her sleeve for daws to pick at The 
Baronet is silent, too ; he is beside Miss Martinez, and suffi- 
cient unto the hour is the bliss thereof. 

Mr. Dane Fanshawe, reclining negligently among the 
cushions of a divan in his wife's dressing-room, lays down 
the paper he is reading, and looks up with a friendly ami 
conciliatory smile on his listless, handsome blonde fac* 

"Back so soon, my angel? You must have left Lady 
Hammerton's uncommonly early. I «ust you found it 
pleasant ? " 

" And I trust j** amused yourself well at Hanpfem Court 



**4 d SOMMMM NICWT. 

Are there any new beauties on the walls or— off? Are then 
any new truss in Bushy Park? And you lunched at the 
1 Mitre/ no doubt, with your unsophisticated backwoods 
friends. Did Mrs. EUcrton make one of the party ? " de- 
mands Dora, changing suddenly from the intensely sarcastic 
tc the spitefully jealous. 

Mr. Fanshawe pulls his long light mustache, and lifts his 
fair eyebrows wearily. 

" No, my angeL Mrs. EDerton was not of the party, I re- 
gret to say. You do that very charming actress the honor of 
being jealous of her, don't you ? I wonder why ? I have 
never paid her any very pronounced attention, and beyond 
dining with her once or twice at the ' Star and Garter ' " 

Mrs. Fanshawe turns her back upon him, and sweeps out 
of the room. Mr. Fanshawe watches her for a moment, with 
amused, sleepy, half-closed eyes. Then he rises on his elbow 
and calls. 

« My love." 

No reply. 

" My dearest Donu M 

Silence. 

" My angeL" 

Dora removes her bonnet, gloves, and lace drapery with 
compressed lips. 

" Do look here one moment please," says Mr. Fanshawe, 
plaintively, "don't be angry. I really have been bcring 
myself to death, at Hampton Court, with the people I men- 
tioned. Met them by chance, and couldn't shake them o$ 
I assure you — awful bore, you know. On my word I should 
greatly have preferred going with you and our lovely sister 
to the garden party, because you see I discovered that 
Ffrench and Lopez, and all those Cuban fighting fellows 
were to be there, and you were sure to meet And the 
meeting could not fail to be more amusing to a dispassionate 
looker-on in Vienna, like myself behind the scenes, than any 



A SUMMER NIGHT. *Sf 

vaudeville ever played. Come petite ange> chase away those 
clouds, smile once more upon your slave, and tell me aD 
about it Did the bride and bridegroom meet ? ' 

Dora relents. After all, she is very fond of her husband 
why else has she married him ? and she is dying to make a 
confidant of some one. And if he really has net been with 
that odious actress 

" I see you have brought Sir Beltrad Talbot home to din- 
ner," resumes Mr. Fanshawe in his slow trainante voice. 
"He dined with the Cubans here last evening — told me 
about it — admires Ffrench beyond everything. Believe me, 
my angel, when I say I laughed. It is really the richest joke 
of the season." 

"I can quite believe it," retorts Mrs. Fanshawe; "the 
misfortunes of our neighbors are always the richest of jokes, 
I understand. As it chances, however, even your keen 
sense of the ridiculous would have been at fault here. There 
has been nothing to laugh at ; so you see you have lost noth- 
ing after all by being a martyr to your country, and escort- 
ing your American cousins to Hampton Court" 

"They did not meet then ? " 

" They met, yes, that is to say she has seen him twice, three 
times. But she has not spoken to him. /, however, have." 

" Ah 1 " says Mr. Fanshawe with more interest than he 
generally shows ; " when ? " 

u Last night, after our return. The dinner-party yott 
•peak of was still in progress. And I sent for him here." 

" Ah J " Mr. Fanshawe, repeats, " and he came ? " 

" He came at once, and we had a long and very serious 
talk. 1 laid the case before him. I spoke of the change in 
Vera ; and, by the by, Dane, you who never knew her six 
years ago, have not the faintest conception how greatly she 
is changed. I spoke of Sir BelUam Talbot, and his love for 
her, of the dreadful blunder of the marriage, of Vert's low 
for Sir Beta an " 



ate A SUMMMX IfimffT. 

Mr. Fanshaire lies back among the pillows, and laugh* 

" You told him that I What a plucky Amafon you ar«t 
my Dora, and, by Jove 1 what a pleasant thing to tell a maa 
— that his wife is in love with another fellow, and ' please 
may she have a divorce and many him ? ' By Jove, yon 
knowl" Mr. Dane Fanshawe laughs in his lazy pleasant 
way again. 

" I see nothing to laugh at," says Dora, austerely ; " nei- 
ther did Colonel Ffrench." 

" I should think not, by Jove I " parenthetically from the 
gentleman on the divan. 

"We discussed the matter in all its bearings, and I will da 
him this justice : no one could have been more amenable to 
reason than he. He acknowledged the justice of all my 
remarks." 

"My angel," says Mr. Fanshawe, and looks at his wife 
with amused eyes, "tell me this. Do you mean to say 
Colonel Ffrench — this fire-eating free-lance — sat before you 
while you told him his wife wanted to marry another man, 
and acknowledged the justice of your remarks ? My hear- 
ing is not usually defective, but I really think it must have 
deceived me just now." 

"What is there extraordinary in it if he did? It was an 
exceptional marriage, it is an exceptional case all through. 
He admitted that nothing I told him surprised him ; he said 
it was exactly what he had expected, and that if Vera wanted 
a divorce, he would not lift a finger to prevent it." 

u Ahl" remarks Mr. Fanshawe, for the third time, "if 
Vera wants a divorce. But if I am any judge of my nearest 
axd dearest, it is not Vera who wants the divorce, but Dora. 
[ am rather short of ready money at present, but I don't 
mind laying you a sovereign or two that when you propose 
the D. C. to Vera, she refuses. Come 1 I'll give you five to 
one on it. 9 

" Excuse me, Mr. Fanshawe, I neither bet nor gamble ; 



A SUMMER NIGHT. *8j 

one of that kind is enough in any family. It is very possi- 
ble she may refuse, just at first — all the same, it shall be an 
accomplished fact by this time next year. Now as I see you 
are dressed, suppose we drop this discussion, and you join 
Sir Beltran in the drawing-room/' says Dora, decisively. 

Mr. Fanshawe rises negligently, and still vastly amused. 
To him the whole thing is a most capital joke. 

" I only wish I knew this Cuban colonel, I would most 
certainly have invited him to join our select little family 
party to-day. He, and Vera, and the baronet, would make 
a most interesting and unique group. I wonder if he knew 
her when they met ? She must have changed a good deal 
in six years." 

Mr. Fanshawe saunters away, after his usual indolent fash- 
ion, to the drawing-room, where he finds Vera, and Vera alone. 

" Oh 1 sweetest, my sister, 9 ' is Mr. Dane Fanshawe's 
greeting, "what have you done with our guest? I am 
under orders to entertain Sir Beltran Talbot, and was told 
I should find him here." 

"He has been called away for a moment," Vera an- 
swers, coldly. She does not like her brother-in-law, she 
never has liked him. The " languid swell " is a species of 
biped she especially detests, and a languid swell Mr. Fan- 
shawe is, or nothing. Why Dora ever married him is the 
chronic wonder of her life ; she wonders now for the thou- 
sandth time, as he stands smiling, complacent, self-satisfied, 
here beside her. Compare him with other men, with Sir 
Beltran Talbot, who enters on the instant, with Richard 
Ffrench, but no, even in thought there can be no compari- 
son there. There are times when she hates him, this self- 
sufficient, shallow, empty-headed coxcomb, who makes Dot 
so miserably unhappy with his vices and follies ; who drifts 
through life, aimless, purposeless, lazy, caring for himself 
and his own comfort and pleasure, and Cor nothing da* and* 



Stt A SUMMER NIGBT. 

They look a cosy little family party enough, fitting m the 
pleasant after-glow of the sunset, over a most excellent din 
ner, two pretty, richly dressed women, two well-looking, 
well-bred men. Bat perhaps of the quartet, Mr. Dane Fan- 
thawe, with his subtle sense of humor, is the only one who 
really enjoys himself. It is not half a bad joke to sit here 
and watch the admiration in poor Sir Beltran's eyes, Dora's 
smiling graciousness and encouragement, Vera a keeping 
herself to herself," hundreds of miles away in spirit, with 
Ffrench no doubt It is almost better in the drawing-room 
after dinner, with Dora at the piano, interpreting Chopia 
and Strauss, Sir Beltran beside Colonel Ffrench's wife, and hct 
the amused looker-on and listener, lying in silent enjoyment 
of it all If his wife brings about the consummation she so 
devoutly wishes, in the face of all that chill, delicate frosti- 
ness, why then his wife is a cleverer little person than he 
gives her credit for. Miss Martinez is one of those uplifted 
sort of people who are a law unto themselves ; she is very 
fond of her sister ; but where her heart 01 her conscience is 
concerned (and she is the sort of a woman, unfortunately 
rare, to possess both), there will be a line which that sister 
must not cross. 

Two hours later, Vera sits in her room, glad it is over, 
glad to be alone, glad to be away from Sir Beltran Talbot 1 s 
too ardent glances, from his too tender words. The lace 
draperies hanging over the windows flutter in the damp 
oight wind, for a fog from the river is rising. Two or three 
wax tapers light the room with a soft glow, and reveal her 
lacs, pale and more wearied than Vera's bright face often 
looks. But a tender musing half-smile is there too, and her 
thoughts are not of Sir Beltran Talbot. He does not know 
her — well, that is not strange ; there is not much resem 
blance between the girl of sixteen and the woman of twenty- 
two. But he will find her out, she feels sure of that ; to* 
morrow, at the latest, he will come, and then— -a tap. Dora, 



A SUMMER NIGHT. 289 

in a white dressing-gown, all her flon silk fair hair utdone, 
and hanging over her shoulders! enters without ceremony. 

" What 1 " she says, " not begun to undress. What are 
you mooning about, I wonder, as you sit here, with that 
ridiculous smile, all by yourself? You used never have any 
thoughts or secrets from me, but now — Vera, I wonder if 
any one in the world ever changed as utterly in six years a* 
you ? I don't mean alone in looks — in everything." 

She seats herself in a low chair, and gazes curiously at 
her sister. 

"They say we all turn into somebody else every seven 
rears, don*t they ? You certainly have, and I don't like that 
somebody else half as well as your former sel£ What a wild, 
silly, ignorant child you were ; what a dignified, wise, self- 
repressed young woman you are I I wonder what has done 
it — your marriage ? " 

"Perhaps," Vera says, slowly. "Yes, my marriage and — 
what followed. The revelation of how and why Richard 
Ffrench made me his wife came so quickly, stunned me so 
utterly — I think I have never felt quite the same since. n 

Her face darkens as she recalls it Has there ever been 
a day since that that parting scene has not been before her, 
that Mrs. Charlton's harsh and false words have not sounded 
in her ears ? 

"A more venomous old toad never lived," says Dora, 
trenchantly; " what a happy release it must have been for 
Eleanor when she died. By the by, I wonder where is Elea- 
nor ? And that reminds me— do you know what I found the 
other day hidden among some things of Mr. Fanshawe's ? 
A portrait of Eleanor Charlton." 

Vera looks up silently. Nothing that Dora can find in 
Mr. Fanshawe's possession will greatly surprise her, but this 
comes near it. 

" Eleanor's portrait ? Are you sure ? " 

"Perfectly sure— -do you think I could be saistaksttl 

■s 



390 <<* SUMMER NWBT. 

And thee were her initial* ' E. C/ New Orleans, and the 
date of the year — the very scunner we spent together at 

Charlton." 

Vera is silent Where Dane Fanshawe is concerned 
niWce is always safest and best 

" I taxed him with it, of course," pursues Dora, in an irri- 
tated tone, " and, of course, also got a few plausible lies in 
return. He couldn't for the life of him remember how the 
photograph had come into his possession — he had never 
known the original. Bah 1 I never believe a word he tells 



me." 



Mrs. Fanshawe allows no sentiment of false delicacy to 
prevent her pouring her marital grievances into her sister's 
reluctant ears. She feels she must tell or die. 

" Where is Mr. Fanshawe ? " Vera asks, after a pause. 

" Gone out," his wife answers with a short, contemptuous 
laugh. " When is Mr. Fanshawe not gone out ? I dare say 
his man will help him up to bed somewhere in the small 
hours. Vera, what a fool I was ever to marry that man?" 

The small, worn face looks woefully pinched and pale 
haggard and gloomy as she says it. It is a very aged fairy 
that sits here in the glow of the wax lights, making th» 
wifely confession — a very old and faded fairy. Vera looks 
at her, tender pity in her eyes. 

" Yes, Dot," she says, compassionately, " I think myself 
it was a — mistake. Do you know I have often wondered 
why you married him. You are not of the sort to fall in love 
easily, and if you were, what is there in Mr. Fanshawe to fall 
in love with ? * 

"Ahl what?" Dora says, bitterly. "Do you thick I 
never ask myself that question ? He has neither brains nor 
ability, heart or feeling for any human creature. He has • 
handsome face and wears his clothes well," with a shout, 
mirthless laugh ; " I suppose it must have been for those two 
eacellent reasons. People commit suicide inder temporary 



A SUMMMM M9&MT. 3QH 



ttemdon of mod— do you suppose they merer mmry and** 
the same ? " 

A iravle dawns on Vera's face— a tort of wondering, ston* 
ful nnile. 

" ' And Abdallah grew to be a man/ " she quotes from the 
Turkish legend, "'and was so handsome that a hundred 
maidens died for love of him.' Well 1 it is done I know, but 
I never shall understand it — why any woman in her senses, 
and past sixteen will marry a man for his face alone. At 
sixteen/' says Miss Martinez, retrospectively, "we are 
fools enough for anything. When a man spoils his life 
for the sake of two blue eyes and a pretty complexion, we 
take it as a matter of course — he belongs to the privileged 
sex, to whom ail folly is possible and pardonable ; but lor a 



woman " 



a 



And a woman of thirty— don't forget to add that" puts in 
Mrs. Fanshawe, with intense self-scorn. " I don't wonder 
you wonder. And to add bathos to folly I am besotted 
enough to be fond of him yet. While he — but there ! it is 
just one of the things that won't bear talking of, and I did 
not come here at this hour of night to discuss my madness 
or my husband. I came, Vera, to talk of — yours." 

A shadow of annoyance passes over Vera's face. Of al| 
subjects this one, as discussed by Dora, is most distasteful to' 
her. 

" I wish you would not," she says, her dark brows con- 
tracting. " Believe me, Dot, it is better not I thought we 
nad said our final say on that subject this morning/' 

u You did, you mean — I said nothing, if you remember. 
It is my turn now. Vera, your warning came too late. 
Last night, after we returned from the ball — after you were 
in bed and asleep, I sent for Colonel Ffrench and had it 
out" 

" Dot I at that hour 1 three in the morning ! " 

"Improper, was it?* laughs Dora. " You ait not jcatoua 



I hope. We don't stand in th# nicer shades ^t fUfiMf 
where vital interests are at stake. And one's brother-in-law 
and step-son combined is privileged. Yes, I sent for him— » 
they were having a dinner party, and keeping it up until 
morning, it seems ; and he came, and, as I sav, we nad it 
oat." 

" Had what out ? " Vent's voice is thoroughly iced, and 
impatient also. " Good Heavens 1 " she thinks, * will Dot 
never let other people's business alone ? " 

" The subject of your marriage, my dear — I don't mind 
Admitting that I began it Vera, it is of no use your mount- 
Tig to the tops of High and Mightydom with me. It is I 
who made the mistake — it is I who am in duty bound to re- 
pair it. Colonel Ffrench thinks as I do, that it was a 
horrible blunder, and the sooner it can be set right the 
better." 

Vera turns to her, a slight color rising and deepening in 
her face, a slow angry light kindling in her eyes. 

" Yes," she says, steadily, " a horrible blunder, and the 
sooner it can be set right the better I How do you and Col* 
Onel Ffrench purpose setting it right ? " 

" There is but one way — and here he agrees with me, too, 
that no time should be lost — a divorce I " 

A flash — swift, dark, fierce — leaps from Vera's eyes. She 
half rises. 

" Dot ! " 

" A divorce," goes on Dora, steadily. " Sit down Vera. 
There need be no publicity, he says ; you can apply for it in 
some obscure State when we return to America ; he wil 1 * of 
course, interfere in no way with the action of the laww-he 
pledges himself to this. ' I will not lift a finger to prevent 
It ' — those were his words. ' I should be sorry to stand in 
the way of your sister's accession to fortune and rank 9 —* 
those are his words too. Of coarse he has heard ef Sir Bat 
Iran- " 



A SUMMMM H14WT. jp§ 



her feet 

" Dora 1 " she cries, " look at me ! tell me ue truth I 
Do you mean to say Richard Ffrench said thai — urged a di- 
vorce — spoke of my marrying another man ? " 

The words seem to choke her — she stops, gasping. 

"I mean to say he said every word I tell you," Dors 
answers with dignity, and meeting the blazing black eyes rail. 
" Do you think I tell lies ? Those were Richard Ffrench't 
exact words ; ask him, if you like. He looks upon his mar- 
riage as the bane of his life, he looks upon a divorce as the 
one atonement that can be made. Will you kindly sit down 
again, or do you intend doing a little high tragedy for my 
exclusive benefit ? " 

Vera sits down. The flush fades from her face, and leaves 
it grayish pale. She even laughs. 

44 1 beg your pardon, Dot ; I won't do high tragedy any 
more. Pray go on. I should like to hear a few more of 
Colonel Ffrench's forcible remarks." 

"We discussed the matter fully," goes on, obediently, 
Mrs. Fanshawe, "in all its bearings. You cannot blame 
him, Vera, that he is most anxious to regain his freedom. 
Any man would in his place. And — he did not say so in 
express words, remember — but I infer that in Cuba there is 
some one — a lady n 

"Yes. Goon." 

"Well — perhaps I had better not, and he really did not 
say so directly. But one can always tell — men are so trans- 
parent in these things. He has heard of Sir Beltran's atten 
tions, and he spoke very handsomely — said he need nevet 
know— of the divorce, I mean." 

"Yea" 

" He leaves England shortly, and will soon after return to 
Cuba. There is every possibility, he thinks, of his remain 
ing definitely there. 



S94 A SOMMMJt NIWWT. 

"Yea.* 

" And he said he thought it best under the circumstances 
not to seek an interview with you. It could inly be painra* 
and embarrassing to you both. That is why to-day — I am 
almost sure— he feigned not to know you when you met. 
For, of course, he knows you — you have changed, but not 
so utterly as that" 

" Yes" 

Mrs. Fanahawe smiles. 

" How long do you intend to go on saying ' yes, 9 like am 
automaton ? Turn round, Vera, and let me see you. Tell me 
you agree with what I say about the divorce. Believe me, 
child, it is the only thing to be done, for you and for him, 
And then you can become Lady * 

Vera turns round, turns so suddenly, so imperiously, that 
Dora recoils. 

" That will do, Dot I have not much to say ; I will rot 
be tragic or high-flown if I can help it. Hear me, and hear 
me on this matter for the last time. Neither from you nor 
any other human being will I tolerate a word on the subject of 
my marriage more. I will never apply for a divorce — I will 
never marry again. If Sir Beltran Talbot were one of her 
Majesty's sons, and I were free by law to-morrow, I would 
not marry him. Colonel Ffrench may free himself or not, as 
he pleases, and as he can — for me there shall be no divorce, no 
lovers, no marrying ! As I am to-night I will go to my grave. 
And if ever you, Dot, see him again and discuss me with him 
as you did last night, as surely as we both sit here, I will leave 
you ! I will leave you, and will never return ! " 

Dora sits mute, shrinking, startled, confounded. 

" Let us not quarrel," Vera says, after a moment, in an 
unsteady voice, " let U6 finish with this now, and forever. 
It is a miserable affair from first to last. Oh ! a mise -able, 
miserable affair ! I am tired, any head aches I think, and-* 
and — good-night, Dotl" 



- WE FEU. OUT 9 MY WIPE AND /.» 295 

Dorm rises, dignified but disgusted, and without deigning 
10 notice the hand her sister holds out, sails in silence from 
the room. The door bangs behind her, and Veia is alone* 

But not the same Vera. She sits where Dora has left her 
and she knows her fate. She believes what she has heard. 
She sits quite motionless a long time — her hand over hex 
eyes. A long time — so long that the rain is pattering 
sharply against the glass, and the raw London fog floating 
dankly through the open windows before she stirs. But she 
rises at last, and as she turns to the light, both hand and 
bee are wet with tears. 




CHAPTER VIL 

"WK FELL OUT, MY WIFE AND L* 

|H£RE ! Look to the left, Colonel Ffrench, it is the 
Countess of Davenant — she is bowing. Do you 
not remember meeting her ? Ah 1 yonder is Mrs. 
Fanshawe ; how pretty and — yes, youthful she is — at this 
distance. Those petite blondes make up so admirably. 
That is Miss Martinez beside her, of course, and also of 
course that is Sir Beltran Talbot with them. You do not 
know Miss Martinez ? She was at Lady Hammertoes gar- 
den party last week. She is an American, or Cuban* 1 
really do not know which, but a compatriot of yours, mon 
colonel, in any case, and one of the most charming dkbutantu 
of the season. They tell me all your American women of 
the best type are like that, pale, spirituelle, haughty. She 
makes one of our party to-day at Richmond with the Dame 
Fanshawe' s. She is quite the fashion, and asked everywhere. 
They leave almost immediately, tomorrow or next day, fa 
New York. No doubt Sir Beltran will get leave of abftnc 



2g6 u rE r £LL OUT% jfy mn jura /• 



wad follow. They say she is an heiress, bat eren for zmm of 
your rich country women it will be a brilliant match* He is 
the parti of the season, and — ah ! " 

Mrs. De Vigne pauses— she looks, first at the Fanshaws 
party, then at the Cuban colonel, who sits beside her. The 
scene is the Park — the hour five in the afternoon. The 
crush of carriages has come to a dead lock. Directly oppo- 
site her pretty Victoria, is a barouche ; seated therein Mrs. 
Dane Fanshawe, Miss Martinez, and beside them, curbing, 
with some difficulty, his impatient horse, Sir Beltran Talbot 
Colonel Ffrench's quick eyes have seen them even before 
those of his fair companion, and his dark brows bend, and 
his resolute lips compress as his gaze rests on Vera and hex 
attendant knight What all the world says must surely be 
true, and seeing, the universe over, is believing. Sir Bel- 
tran' s story is written in his frank English face, for all the 
Lady's Mile to read, if it listeth. 

For Vera, she lies back listlessly enough, a trifle bored, 
but very handsome — so handsome that a thrill of wonder, of 
recognition, of pleasure, of pain, goes through the heart of 
the man who watches her. His wife ! He is amazed at 
himself that, in spite of all changes, he has not recognized her 
from the first ; for, despite all its beauty, he sees now it is 
the very face of little Vera, and the deep, large, lustrous 
eyes — they are unchanged. Sir Beltian is talking — she is 
listening — answering — smiling, too, but in an absent and pre- 
occupied way, and with a vroud indifference she takes no 
pains to hide. A sharp pang of angry jealousy knits Richard 
Ffrench's brows. She is his-— his wife — what has this man, 
any man on earth to do with her but himself? His resolu- 
tion is taken on the instant — there shall be no divorce — his 
wife she is, his wife she shall remain — no man shall win or 
wear what belongs to him. She may have forgotten, but she 
loved him once— -child or woman, it matters not, she loved 
him. She shall love him again. She may be ambitious, she 



"WM FELL OUT) MT WIFE AND L m *& 

amy be worldly — she may be like her sister, and yet he can- 
not believe it That is a noble, a true/ a pore, a womanly 
face, if he is any judge of faces. And little Vera cannot 
have changed her whole nature. How beautiful she is — not 
one of these fair, delicate patricians he sees about her, are 
half or quarter so lovely. And she is his wife 

Sir Beltran Talbot glances at him, and salutes Mrs. De 
Vigne. Then he stoops with a smile, and speaks to Vera. 
She looks up, her eyes and the eyes of Richard Ffrench 
meet He knows her now-— at last ! — and there flashes from 
hers one passionate gleam of anger, and scorn, and con- 
tempt, that even Mrs. De Vigne cannot fail to see. She 
turns to him in wonder. 

"She knows you," she says, almost involuntarily, "I 
thought " 

She checks herself and looks away. But in that moment 
she had divined with a woman's quickness in these things, 
that the dark, dashing soldier of fortune by her side, has had 
his romance, and that the end is not yet. And Miss Mar- 
tinez — is this the secret of her proud indifference to all men, 
of her coldness to Sir Beltran. Colonel Ffrench is the sort 
of man to win a woman's heart and keep it. They have 
known each other in America — been lovers, perhaps. And 
now they meet as strangers, and Miss Martinez's superb 
black eyes blaze as they look on him. Mrs. De Vigne 
makes up her mind that she will watch them this afternoon, 
and find out something of this interesting little romance if 
she dies for it They were to have staid — the Dame Fan- 
thawe's, until the end of the season. Now they depart 
abruptly this week. Has the unexpected advent of the 
Cuban colonel anything to do with this rapid exodus ? 

Nothing is said — there is a break in the line, and the car- 
riages pass. But in Cclonel Ffrench' s face there is a change 
which his fair friend is quick to see. She is a pretty Uttle 
woman, a married flirt of the most pronounced ordet, and 



ii* 



298 "WE FELL OUT, MY WIFE AND I. 



» 



his handsome, free lance, has caught her inflammable fancy 
from the first. He is due to-day at her villa near Richmond. 
The Dame Fanshawe's and Sir Beltran Talbot are also to 
be guests. It is the last invitation the Fanshawes will 
accept, as Mrs. De Vigne gayly puts it to her companion — 
positively the last appearance of Miss Martinez. No doubt 
the engagement will be announced almost immediately. It 
will be a most brilliant match for Miss Martinez. Beautiful 
she is — of that there can be no question, but mere beauty 
counts for so little, and Sir Beltran, with his rent roll, and 
his pedigree, might have won the highest in the land. Still 
he is absolutely untrammeled, and his passion for la belle 
Americaine is a thing to marvel at, in these degenerate 
days. 

Mrs. De Vigne's gay little tongue runs merrily all the way 
during that drive to Richmond. Her companion says very 
little — as a rule he says little — but he is more silent to-day 
than she has ever known him. A total revulsion of feeling 
has taken place with him at sight of his wife and the man 
beside her. Shall Dora Fanshawe, ambitious, scheming, un- 
principled, rule his whole life ? Once she found him plastic 
as wax in her hands; shall she find him so forever. And 
yet, was it altogether her tears, Mrs. Charlton's bitter words, 
his step- father's decree, that caused his marriage ? Even in 
these far-off days was not little Vera dear to him, was it not 
to save her possible pain; was it no^ because she cared for 
him, and it would make her happy ? He does not know, he 
cannot tell. That distant time is as a dream — it seems to 
him just now as if he must have loved her all his life. She 
is his wife — his wife she shall remain. What was it Dora 
said about her notions of wifely duty and honor? he had 
paid but little heed that night. What if Dora is at the bot- 
tom of it all? if that talk of divorce, and unhappiness, and 
love for Sir Beltran be but a little skilful fiction of her own ? 
He knows Mrs. Fanshawe cf old, knows that most of her 



- WM FELL OUT, MY WIFE AND V *9* 

glib chatter is to be taken with a pinch of salt Wb at if the 
old girlish fancy be not quite dead despite six years of Mrs. 
Fanshawe? What if life holds other possibilities mora 
blissful even than fighting for freedom and Cuba ? Tc*-day 
they will meet He will seek her out, and put his fate to 
the touch, to win or lose it all They go so soon, and when 
once apart who knows when they may meet again? 

u Welcome to Richmond," cries the gay voice of Mrs. De 
Vigne. "Come back, please, Colonel Ffrench, from — I 
wondei where you have been for the past fifteen minutes, 
as you sat there staring straight before you, with that dread* 
fully inflexible and obstinate look ! Wherever you wer» re- 
turn, for here we are at last." 

***** * • 

" I wonder/' Dora says, in a low voice, that Sir Beltrtt 
may not hear ; " I wonder, Vera, if Colonel Ffrench is really 
en route for Richmond, and makes one of the guests ? 
Mrs. De Vigne's flirtation is certainly more pronounced than 
even Mrs. De Vigne's flirtations are wont to be, and that if 
saying a good deal. Shall you mind, dear ? " 

" If Richard Ffrench is there ? Not in the least," says 
Vera, coldly. 

" He saw us, but I did not see him. People imagine we 
Are strangers, and a recognition here in the Park would in* 
volve so many disagreeable explanations. If he is introduced 
ne will have tact and jpod taste eftough to see and under- 
stand. I am afraid it will be awkward for you, Vera ; and 
with Sir Beltran present, too. If we only need not go." 

" Why need we ? " Vera asks, in the same frosty voice. 

" Well we have accepted, you ace, ana we cannot plead 
sudden indisposition, now that she has seen us, and besides, 
as it is cur very last—— Still, dear, if you wish—" 

" I have no wish in ths matter. It can make very tittla 
difference whether Colonel Ffrench is present or aot. I 
think, indeed, on the whole. I should prefer it" 



900 « WE FELL OVT % MY WIFE AND /.» 

" Prefer it t " Mrs. Fanshawe repeats, startled. 

" Prefer it," Vera iterates. Her lips are set, her eyes 
quite flash, there is a look of invincible resolution on he? 
face. " There are just two or three things I should like to 
say to Colonel Ffrench — to disabuse his mind, if possible, of 
one or two little mistakes he may have made in the past 
Fate shall settle it. If we meet, I shall speak to him ; if we 
do not, why, we will drift asunder in silence. Now let us 
drop the subject. As I told you before, Colonel Ffrencn is 
a topic I decline henceforth to discuss." 

When Vent's face takes that look, when Vera's voice takei 
that tone, Dora knows there is no more to be said. She is 
wise in her generation — beyond a certain point it is alw%ji 
best to let things take their course. She has done her work, 
and done it well. Vera is proud, and her pride has had its 
death-blow. She is sensitively womanly and delicate, and 
that delicate womanliness has been stung to the quick. 
Dora has seen that flashing passing glance — those two may 
safely meet, and in all probability it will be for the last time. 

A week has passed since that rainy July night. All in a 
moment Mrs. Fanshawe makes up her mind, and issues her 
imperial ukase — they are to go home at once. London is 
not habitable after July, she is fagged out, she is homesick 
a month's perfect repose at Charlton is imperatively neces 
vtry to her health and happiness. Vera looks at her witk 
real gratitude ; she will be glad, unutterably glad to get away. 
She is so tired of it all, there is so much sameness, so much 
monotony, so deadly a weariness in it all. Something lies 
like lead on her heart ; she does not care to ask what. To 
be back at Charlton, under the fresh greenness of the trees, 
to look once more on the blue brightness of the sea, to be 
away from Sir Beltran Talbot, to begin all over again, to 
feel once more alone — it is the desire of her heart.' 9 

"Thank you, Dot,' 9 she says, gratefully, wearily. "Yes, 
let us go & let us go at once." 



- WE FELL OUT. MY WIFE AND JL m 3t* 

80 it is settled. Mr. Dane Fanshawe shrugs his shoulders 
smiles under his blonde beard, glances at his handsome sis- 
ter-in-law, and assents. " As the queen wills * is after aB 
the law of the household, although Mr. Fanshawe does 
pretty much as he pleases in the main. Mrs. Ellerton is a 
pretty woman and a charming actress, but pretty women 
abound, and charming actresses are everywhere, and he has 
known her six weeks, and Dora is growing jealous, poor soul, 
and Mr. Fanshawe struggles with a yawn, rises languidly, and 
departs to see about state-rooms. He is not at the Rich- 
mond villa to-day ; he is dining with Mrs. Ellerton and a 
select few not on his wife's visiting list, at the " Star and 
Garter." 

Sunset lies low, translucent, rose, and gold, over ths 
world. It is neither classic Tiber, dreamy Nile, nor flowing 
Arno— it is only the Thames above Richmond, but the rivet 
glides cool, blue, bright between its green wooded banks— a 
strip of silver ribbon between belts of emerald green. 

Mrs. De Vigne's place is a dream of delight, of all rare and 
radiant flowers, of ancestral oaks, elms, and copper beeches, 
slanting down to the river-side, and Mrs. De Vigne is a very 
queen of hostesses. The house is cool and breezy, the din 
ner the masterpiece of a chef, the guests select, well chosen, 
and not too many. Removed from him by nearly the whole 
length of the Uble, and on the same side sits Vera, so Colo- 
nel Ffrench, seated near his hostess, catches but one or two 
fleeting glimpses of her during the ceremonial. She is 
dressed in pale, gold-colored silk, with black laces, and she 
wears diamonds. He has never seen her in jewels befoie, 
and the flashing brilliants and rich-hued silk become her 
magnificently. She looks regal, he thinks — more beautiful 
than he has even imagined her, and as unapproachable as a 
princess. Sir Beltran is not quite by her side, bat he is 
safficienUy near to pay her much more attention than hs 
pays his 



joa »m* frtl oxrr % my wipe Am z» 

"The Martinez is in capital form thir evening," drawls a 
man near him to his next neighbor ; " handsomest woman, 
by Jove, in England. Pity she goes so soon. Never saw 
her look half a quarter so superb before." 

" It is a way of Miss Martinez's," is the answer, " to look 
more bewildering each time than the last. And to-day, as 
you say, she is dazzling. Like the sun, she flashes out most 
brilliantly just before setting. Lucky fellow, Talbot— con- 
found him 1 " 

" Ah I you may say so," the first speaker respondi 
gloomily, and Richard Ffrench turns with angry impatience 
away. 

How dare these men discuss his wife — link her name with 
Talbot's. He feels impelled to turn savagely upon them, 
and annihilate them and all present with the truth. 

But he does not — he chafes with irritated impatience and 
restrains himself. As yet no presentation h*s taken place — 
he has no desire for a formal presentation ; he will seek her 
out in the drawing-room and speak to her, if he can, alone. 
And if the Vera of old is not dead and gone forever, the 
dear little Vera of Shaddeck Light, he will claim his wife 
before the world ere it is a week older. 

The ladies, at Mrs. De Vigne's telegraphic bow, rise and 
depart, and he watches in their train that one slender figure, 
with the mien and grace of a queen. Sir Beltran watches 
also — he, too, is silent, preoccupied, absent. Ffrench notes 
it jealously. The interval ends, and they are in the drawing- 
room, where fair won: en flutter about like brght-plumaged 
birds, and there is music, and the subdued tumult of gay 
voices and laughter. Outside, day is not yet done — the 
lovely after-glow still lingers, a pearly sickle moon is cut 
sharply in the sapphire blue, and down in the copee a night 
ingale is singing. A faint hay-scented breeze stirs the lace 
window draperies — one or two stars come out in tleif 
golden tremulous beauty as be looks. It is a picture h# 



- wm jmll #f*r, my warm AtfB K m 30] 

to the last day of his life — photographed sharp!/ a* a 
vision on his brain. 

" It if so warm/ 9 says some one; "come oat and let us 
hear the nightingale." 

A little jewelled hand is pushed through his arm, a pair ot 
soft eyes look up at him, a plaintive voice makes the senti- 
mental speech. But it is only Mrs. De Vigne* and Mrs. De 
Vigne on mischief bent. 

" Do you ever hear nightingales in Cuba or in New York ? 
Look at that moon, Colonel Ffrench, and wish — it is the 
new moon. What was it you wished for ? Ah 1 Miss Mar- 
tines I" 

The interjection is at onee malicious and apposite, for at 
the moment Miss Martinez comes in view, and Sir Beltran 
is with her. They stand in the shadow of the trees, he hai 
both her hands in his, his face is flushed, eager, impassioned. 
The hour has come ! Vera's they cannot see — it is in 
«hadow and averted, but the attitude, the look of Sir Beltran 
tells the whole story. Mrs* De Vigne glances up at her 
companion and laughs. 

" Only now I " she says, " and I thought it was all settled 
ages ago. I wanted to introduce you to Miss Martinez, but 
I suppose it would never do to interrupt that tableau. We 
shall have to go and listen to the nightingale after all." 

He stands still, his face dark, his brows knit, his eyes 
glowing. He neither hears nor heeds. Mrs. De Vigne 
looks at him with even more interest than she has looked 
yet 

" Colonel Ffrench,* she repeats, incisively, " shall we go 
and listen to " 

She pauses. Miss Martinez has suddenly drawn her 
hands away, and turned resolutely from her lover. In turn- 
ing from him, %he turns to them. She sees them—him— 
stands, and lets mem approach. 

" My dear Miss Martinet," says the bright rosat of little 



J04 "WE FELL *VT % MY Mm JU99 JT 

Mrs. DeVigne, " let me make two of my most especial ftiendi 
acquainted — let me present to you Colonel Ffrench." 

Vera looks at him — fully, steadily. Instinctively he holdi 
oat his hand — she does not seem to see it 

" I have met Colonel Ffrench before," she says, in a voids 
as steady as her look. All that Dora has told her, all her 
outraged woman's pride, all the words of that fatal letter of 
long Ago, rise and burn in passionate pride within her. Shi 
would rather fell dead here where she stands than let him see 
his presence has power to move her. 

His hand drops by his side — they turn as by one impulse, 
and move on together. But in dead silence, until Mrs. De 
Vigne, pulling herself up with an effort, breaks out with a 
sort of gasp, to fill up the awful hiatus. No one knows what 
she says — it is doubtful if she does herself. Only she is say- 
ing something — this blank silence is quite too horrid. Where 
is Sir Beltran Talbot ? She glances behind — he has disap- 
peared. She looks at Miss Martinez — her face is marble in 
the pale shimmer of the moon. She turns to the Cuban col- 
onel — his has set itself in an expression of invincible resolve. 
Something wrong here, something seriously wrong — she is 
playing gooseberry — she will get away, and let them have i* 
out by themselves. Some guests approach — a word of apol 
ogy, and she is gone. Then he turns to her. 

" Vera ! " 

" Colonel Ffrench I • 

Her eyes flash out upon him, but despite the fire of her 
eyes, two words kept in a refrigerator for a year could not be 
more thoroughly iced. 

" You are about to leave England ?" 

" The day after to-morrow — yes." 

u I wish to see you before you go — I must tee you I " He 
says, in a tone that makes a second flash leap from the South- 
ern eyes; " I must see you alone. Here is you sister. A! 
what hour to-morrow may I call ?" 



t« 



4 WE MA OUT&Z KNOW NOT WWY." 10ft 



u You take a remarkably authoritative tone, do you not> 
Colonel Ffreach ? However, as I have a few words to say 
to you in turn — if you call at four to-morrow you will find m# 
at home." 

She turns swiftly to Mrs. Fanshawe, bows slightly and Cot 
♦he first time, and so leaves 




CHAPTER VUL 

m O, WS FELL OUT, I KNOW MOT WHY,* 

QUIET scene — a pretty picture. A handsomely 
appointed parlor, the too ardent afternoon sun 
shine shut out, a young lady sitting alone. She 
sits in a low chair, the absolute repose of her manner telling 
of intense absorption — her hands clasped in her lap, her eyes 
fixed on the door. She wears black — a trailing black silk up 
to the throat, down to the wrists, that falls with the soft frou 
fr&u dear to the feminine heart, whenever she moves, unlit 
by rose, or ribbon, or gem. It is that consummation, so im- 
possible to attain except by the very rich—- elegant simpli- 
city. 

She has been waiting here for ten minutes. There is 
always something in waiting, in expectation that makes the 
heart beat ; Vera's heart is going like a trip-hammer, her eyes 
excitedly gleam ; she is bracing herself for the most trying 
ordeal of her life. It moves her to the very depths of her 
being, but it simply must be, and she is wise enough in ha 
two-and-twenty years to know the folly of fighting Fate. 

Perhaps of all the trying positions in which a woman can 
be placed — and life holds many — there can never be any so 
thoroughly humiliating and crushing, as the knowledge that 
sfce has been forced upon the acceptance of a man vfco does 



J06 "0, WM FELL OW % I MVOW MOT Wmr? 

aot want her. To Vera it ii a clear case. She haa bees 
guilty of a foolish fondness for a man who gave her in return 
the sort of amused regard he might give the gambols of a kit- 
ten, but who, forced by his friends and his own overdone sense 
of chivalry, has married her. 

And now he is here ; he comes to-day to plead for his legal 
freedom that he may marry that " some one " in Cuba, and 
she must stand and listen to the crudest, moat humbling words 
that ever were spoken by man to woman I 

A tap— Felician gently opens the door. 

M Colonel Ffrench, mademoiselle,* she aaaoaaoaa, and 



Vera starts up. He stands before her, and something she 
might have thought wistful pleading, if seen in other eye% 
looks at her out of his. He holds out his hand. 

" Vera / " he says, in a tone that matches the look. 

She makes a rapid gesture and passes him, and once more 
his hand falls. She is excited as she has never been excited 
before in her life. She trembles through all her frame, so 
that she has to lay hold of the low marble mantel for supp9rt. 
Her voice, when she speaks, is not like the voice of Vera. 

" Oh, wait 1 " she says, in a breathless way, "give rae time. 
I know what you have come to say, but wait — wait one mo- 
ment Listen to me first It has all been a mistake — from 
first to last, a mistake that can never be set right, but I am 
not so much to blame — so much — to " 

She breaks, words will not come, the words she wishes to 
say. She tries to catch her breath to stop the rapid beating 
of her heart. 

" Oh 1 " she cries out, " what must you have thought of me 
in that past time — what must you think of me to-day 1 How 
bad, how bold — Colonel Ffrench 1 " She turns to him! pas* 
sionately, and holds forth both hands, "for Heaven's sab 
try to believe me if you can 1 All Mrs. Charlton said to yoa 
that day was fclae false every word. It seems hard to cr»d 



"ft WE WELL OUT, I ENO W NOT WHY.* 3Pf 

it, I know, but, indeed, indeed, indeed, when I went to 700 
that evening, when I staid with you that night, I had no 
thought, no wish, that you — would — make me your — wife ! * 

The words that nearly stifle her are out She turns from 
him again, and bows her face on the hands that clasp the 
marble. In all her life it seems to her she can never suffer 
again the pain, the shame she suffers in this hour. 

For Colonel Ffrench he stands and looks at her. The 
whole scene, her excited manner, her rapid words, seen 
literally to have taken away his breath. Is this the dignified, 
haughty, self-possessed princess of last night — this passion- 
ately-speaking woman, shaken like a reed by the storm of 
feeling within her? He simply stands mute; he has ex- 
pected something so entirely different, and looks and listens 
like a man in a dream. 

" You defended me from my enemy, I know, 19 goes on 
Vera, still in that agitated >\jice ; " every word of that inter 
fiew is stamped on my remembrance. It was like you — you 
would have done it for any one maligned She wronged me 
—try and believe me when I say she wronged me cruelly. I 
went in all innocence that night, try and believe that too, 
with no thought in my child's heart but that you were suffer- 
ing and alone, and that — I liked you so much. And from 
that hour, until I sat and listened to Mrs. Charlton, nc 
thought of the actual truth ever crossed my mind. Doia 
told me nothing — nothing that was true. Neither did you. 
Oh 1 Richard Ffrench, neither did you 1 She told me yon 
wished to marry me before you went away, that yon- jom 
6hall I say it ?— cared for me as men care for the girls they 
marry. And I believed her, and was glad ; how am I to 
deny it ? and I wrote you that poor, foolish, fatal letter, and 
yon came, and in spite of your coldness, your gloom, I neve* 
read the truth. Until Mrs. Charlton spoke I knew nothirg, 
tnd then — Heaven help me — I knew all ! * 

She catches her breath with a dry, husky sob, and stops to 



308 "O, WX PELL OUT, I KNOW NOT 

a moment Her hands are locked in their grasp to a 
sion of pain. It seems to her that if she lets go her hold she 
will turn dizzy and falL 

" Yon vent away," she harries on, "and I was alone, and 
had time to think. Your letter came, bat I woald not read 
it— then. I laid it away, and waited until the muddle would 
grow dearer. Time might have soothed and softened even 
what I felt then, if something else had not come. That 
something else was a letter of yours* Colonel Ffrench, do 
you recall a letter you wrote to Mr. Charlton just after my 
acceptance of you ? In that letter you spoke your mind — 
how, overpowered by the tears and reproaches of Mia 
Lightwood, to save my honor, to shield me from the conse- 
quences of my own act, you would marry me, although you 
knew that marriage to be utter folly and insanity—although 
I would be an incubus to you for life. I remember it all 
— so well I so well I I found it among some papers given 
me by Dora to read. Mrs. Charlton's surmise might be false 
or true — that mattered little ; but I held in my hand that 
day your own thoughts, your own words, and knew at last, 
for die first time, the full extent of the dreadful mistake that 
had been made. If you had but told me — if Dora had but 
toid me! You were my friend, she my sister — but you 
would not I was a child, I know, but I would have under- 
stood, and die sacrifice might have been spared. Colonel 
Ffrench, your life may have been spoiled by a forced mar- 
riage, but tell me, if you can, what do you think of mine?" 

He cannot speak if he would buf she gives him ncf time. 
Carried away by the excitement c al she has hidden so long, 
she is unconscious that he has spoken but one word — her 
name — since he has entered ; that he still stands mute and 
motionless, borne down by the whirlwind of her passion of 
grief and regret That rainy twilight is before her — she is 
back at Charlton, with the wind tossing die trees, the shine 
of the rain on the lamp-lit flags. Dora in her trailing crape 



"0, WE FELL OUT, I KNOW NOT WBK m 309 

and tables, and small, pale face, and she herself a wan, for 
lorn little figure enough, in the recess of the window, read, 
ing that cruelest letter, it seems to her, that ever man wrote. 

"Well," she says, "all that is past. What is done it 
done ; your wife you made me, your wife I am, But, Rich 
ard Ffrench, as I stand here, I would give my heart's blood 
to blot out that day — a hundred lives, if I had them, to be 
free once more 1 " 

He makes no sign ; he still stands hat in hand, and listens 
and looks. 

" I liked you in the past, in those Charlton days. Oh 1 I 
know it well; as a child may like, with no thought of love 
or marriage, so hear me Heaven, any more than if I had been 
six instead of sixteen. Dora spoke — you were silent, and I 
consented to marry you. You thought I was in love with 
you, and you pitied me ; I had endangered my reputation 
for your sake, and you made me your wife. But, Colons 
Ffrench, listen here 1 I was not in love with you, eithei 
then, or ever, or now — there have been times when it has 
been in my heart to hate you since, as it is in my heart 
to hate you as you stand before me now. You did me t 
cruel wrong when you made me your wife, and, as I say, 1 
would lay down my life gladly, willingly, this hour to be 
free I " 

She has never intended to say this, to go so far, but the 
force of excitement that shakes her, carries her away. She 
sees his face turn slowly from its clear, sunburned brown to 
a dead, swarthy white, which makes her draw back, even 
while she speaks. 

" Understand me/' she says, in a steadier voice, " I knew 
you meant well, honorably, chivalrously, but, as I tell you, 
k was a mistake, a cruel, dreadful, irreparable mistake. No, 
not irreparable — my sister tells me otherwise, and if the law 
will give you back freedom, take it 1 then indeed I may 
learn to forgive and forget As I said to you whet I cam* 



3IO " O. WE PELL OUT. I KNOW NOT WHY* 

in, I think I know why you have asked for this interview— 
what it is you wish to say, but do not say it — I would rathet 
not hear. Dora has told me all that is recessary for me tm 
know. For the rest, I wish you well and happy, but aftes 
to-day I see no reason why we should ever meet again. Wm 
have managed to spoil each other's lives — if you can set year 
own life right, no one will rejoice more than I. But what' 
ever the future may bring you, Colonel Ffrench, let it bring 
you other thoughts of me than those you must have had in 
the past. Think of me no longer as a girl who cared for you 
so much that she forgot modesty and delicacy and ran after 
you wherever you went ; but think of me as a poor, igno- 
rant child, who knew no better than to like the gentleman 
who was kind to her, and tried to amuse her, and who never 
knew there could be harm or shame in that liking. Think 
of me as I am — so ashamed of that past, so sorry, so hum- 
bled, that never for one hour is the sickening memory absent 
from me. Think of me as a woman who would give you 
back your freedom by the sacrifice of her life, if she dared — 
as a woman whose own existence is marred and darkened by 
that insane marriage. Let us meet no more, let us speak at 
it no more. Our ways lie apart — let us say good-by, here, 
now and forever. n 

She turns from him as she says it, still hurried, breathless 
scarcely knowing what she does. He makes no answer, h« 
makes no attempt to, he makes nc sffort to set himself right 
— the rush of her rapid words has carried him away as on a 
torrent But the picture she makes as she stands thsre, is 
with him to the last day of his life — beautiful, impassioned, 
erect, noble, vindicating her womanhood, a memory to be 
with him when he dies. 

As she turns to go, another door opens, Dora comes in, 
and stands stricken mute on the threshold, a gorgeous littis 
vision, ail salmon-pink, silk, and pearls. He glances at hef 
a second, then looks IaJk, but in that glance Vera is gone. 



cmtju,rair place. 9t i 




CHAPTER DL 

CK41LT0N PLAC1. 

II OKiTlL The yellow after-light of a lorely day 
lingers over the world, glints through the brown 
boles of the maples and hemlocks, burning deep 
ruby and bright orange in their autumn dress ; flashes away 
yonder in a million ripples and stars of light on the mkror- 
Hke bay, and turns the western windows of Charlton Place 
into sparks of fire. Charlton in its fall splendor of rubies, 
and russets, and yellows, and browns, as we saw it once be- 
fore with Dora Charlton and Vera Ffrench sitting beneath 
its waving trees. Six years, with their numberless changes, 
have come and gone since then, and the sisters are here 
once more, with life wearing a newer, sadder, stranger face 
for each. Those six years have changed Vera into a beauti- 
ful woman, wise with the wisdom that is twin sister to sorrow, 
with a wearier light in the large, dark eyes, a graver sweetness 
in the smile than of old. Those six years have changed Dora 
unutterably for the worst — harder, colder, more selfish, more 
wordly beyond measure she is than even the hard, selfish little 
woman who made herself Robert Charlton's wife. Robert 
Charlton lies, with folded hands and the daisies above him, 
over in St Jude's* church-yard, a monument of granite and 
gilt bearing him down, and setting forth, in glowing record, 
his virtues. Dora is the wife of another man — a man who 
never, at his best, was worthy to tie the latchet of Robert 
Charlton's shoes. At his best if a man thoroughly shallow 
conceited, and vain can ever have any best. Two years aoj 
a half the husband of the rich Mrs. Charlton have left him at 
his worst Dora's greatest enemy could hardly wiah her a 



JI3 CMARLTON PLACE. 

note wretched late than is hers as Dane Fanshawe's wife. 
If Richard Ffrench had ever desired retributive justice to 
befall the little usurper who stands in his place and rules it 
at Charlton, he need but look at her as she paces up and 
down her room this October evening, waiting for the sonnd 
of carriage wheels that will tell her her husband has come* 
Her small face, pale at all times, is bluish in its pallor now ; 
the rich dinner-dress, of black lustreless silk and velvet, that 
trails after her, increases that pallor; her blue eyes flash 
with that lurid light of rage blue eyes only can flash ; her lipi 
are set ; her little hands are clenched. 

"The villain 1 " she breathes. "The scoundrel ! the liar! 
the forger I After all I have done for him — all he has made 
<ne suffer — the position in life he has attained through me— 
co return me this! Oh, I hate him I I wish I had been 
dead before I ever married him I But I will desert him — I will 
cell him so this very night 1 He shall learn whether I am to 
be robbed and outraged in this way with impunity ! " 

She clenches her hand more viciously over a crushed 
paper she holds, and walks excitedly up and down the room. 
Now and then she puts her hand over her heart, as a sharp 
spasm catches her breath. Oh ! these spasms, daily increas- 
ing, daily growing sharper — harder to bear. Is it not enough 
to be a martyr to them, to feel with an awful thrill of horror 
that at any moment one of these spasms of the Heart may stop 
that heart's beating forever ? Is not this enough that she 
must also bear the endless misery and wrong inflicted upon 
her by her heartless husband ? If she only did not ca*e for 
him 1 But is it not in the spaniel nature of woman to love 
best the hand that strikes hardest? And she knows she 
cares for him — that she could not leave him if she would, in 
spite of infidelity, coldness, indifference, slight— or may it be 
said, because of them ? She cares for him, and that is why the 
blows fall so bitter and hard to bear. It is only those we love 
who have power to wound our hearts. Others may stab oof 



CHARLTON PLACE. 11% 

vanity, oar am&ur propre, but love no one and the irhole wot Id 
combined will never break your heart She is in the white heat 
of rage just now, and in that rage is capable of saying and 
doing pretty much anything ; so the lookout that awaits Mr, 
Dane Fanshawe is not a pleasant one, did he but know it 
He is used to warm receptions, though not in the endearing 
sense, and the knowledge that he richly deserves every rating 
he gets, and a good many he does not get, enables him to 
endure them with philosophy. Indeed, this gentleman is a 
philosopher, or nothing. There is nothing new, and nothing 
true, and it doesn't signify, and it is the Song of the Wife, 
the world over, this tune Dora loves to sing. He is a Sy- 
barite, and, never lets life's rose-leaves crumple beneath him 
if he can ; worry glides off his mind as dew off a cabbage- 
lea£ never a drop sinks in. It is one of his principles, and 
about the only principle he is conscious of. 

Two months have passed since the return of the Dane 
Fanshawes and Miss Martinez from their prolonged Euro- 
pean sojourn — two months spent alternately at Newport and 
in New York. Mrs. Fanshawe left Newport in haste, be 
cause Mr. Fanshawe became suddenly and violently epris of 
a certain dashing young widow of two-and-twenty, which gay 
little fisher of men netted all alike, married or single. They 
spent September in New York, and the transition realized 
the truth of the old saw — " out of the frying pan into the 
fire." Mr. Fanshawe' s excesses were simply maddening to Mr. 
Fanshawe' s wife. The green-eyed monster laid hold of Dora's 
poor little heart, go where she would, and never — let it be 
laid for Mr. Fanshawe — never once without good, solid, 
substantial reason. The latest reason was a popular opera- 
bouffe prima-donna, substantial in the sense that she weighed 
well on to two hundred avoirdupois. The bracelets, diamond 
rings, bouquets, and poodles— this last melodious luxury had 
a passion for poodles — that found their way to Mile. Lalage'i 
hetel, and that Dora's money paid for, would have drive© 

14 



314 CHARLTON PLACE. 

Don mad had ihe known it What ihe did know was, that 
Mr. Fanshawe lived at the rate of about twenty thousand 
dollars a year, and that even the Charlton ducats wouki not 
hold out forever with a double, treble, fourfold drain upom 
them. The paper she holds in her hand to-day is the last 
straw that breaks the camel's back — it is a forged check for 
the sum of five thousand dollars, and Dora is white with 
passion to the very lips. Large as her income is, she lives 
beyond it—- doubly beyond it, as Mr. Fanshawe draws upon 
her. She dresses herself and Vera superbly, she denies her- 
self no pleasure, no luxury that money can buy; but if the 
forged check system begins, before five years more she will 
be as she was in the Dora Lightwood days — penniless. And 
it seems to her now, after these years of wealth, that sooner 
than go back to that phase of existence, she would glide 
quietly out of life in a double dose of morphine. 

Hark 1 Carriage-wheels at last, driving as Mr. Fanshawe 
drives always, recklessly fast. She pauses in her walk, her 
eyes glittering with passionate excitement, and waits and 
listens. She was ill when he went up to New York two days 
ago— surely common decency will send him first of all to her 
side. But common decency and Dane Fanshawe long ago 
shook hands and parted — he does not come to his wife. She 
hears him run upstairs whistling cheerily, pass on to his own 
rooms quite at the other end of the passage, and the dooi 
dose after him with a bang, She waits two, four, ten min 
utes, then patience ceases to be a virtue. She flings wide 
her door, and raises her voice— always of unsuitable compasr 
for her small body, and shriller now and more piercing that, 
ever, sharpened as its edge is by anger. 

"Mr. Fanshawe." 

" My angel I " promptly and pleasantly comes the :e- 
•ponse. Mr. Fanshawe knows better than to feign deafness 
when Mrs. Fanshawe calls in that tone. His door opens, he 
standi half divested of his dusty travelling sait just wit bin it 



COAXLT0N PLAOL $1$ 

*Come here, if you please/' commands Dora in a voice 

mat would go very well with a box in the ear, and to teJl 
the truth it is the very endearment Dora's little fist is tingling 
to administer. 

Mr. Fanshawe looks in plaintive appeal from his wife to 
his dishabille. 

" My angel," he murmurs, " if you could wait, although 
I know you won't, until I have had a bath, and dressed 
for " 

" Never mind your dress. Such wedded lovers as we are 
need not stand on the order of their costume surely. Come 
here at once." 

" Now I wonder what is the latest indictment," says Mr. 
Fanshawe to himself with a gentle sigh, but obeying. "My 
lady looks as if the jury had found a true bill." 

He enters his wife's room, deprecatingly, submissively. If 
a few gentle looks, a few pleasant words, even a few off-hand 
husbandly caresses will soothe her down, he is willing, most 
willing, more than willing indeed, to administer them. They 
cost so little, and he has known them to go so far. Like 
penny buns, they are cheap, and very filling at the price 
Fine words may not, as a rule, butter parsnips, but from a 
neglectful husband to a weak-minded wife they do wonders 
Mr. Fanshawe has tried their power and knows. So he gives 
Dora a pleasant look, a pleasant little smile, and holds out 
his hand to draw her to him. But Dora waves him off and 
back, standing like a small, furious, tragedy-queen in her 
sweeping silks and velvet, and thread lace, her blue eyes 
alight with rage, her little figure quivering in the intensity of its 
passion. Her husband has done as much, and more than this, 
many a time before, but she is smarting under a long course 
of slight and wrong, and pain and affront, and this is just 
the last drop in a brimming cup. He sees that it is a hope- 
less case, the coming tornado is not to be averted ; so, with 
a gentle regretful sigh, he sinks wearily into the tofteet chatf 



%l€ CMARLTVN PULCM. 

the room contains. There is to be a scene ; it h inevitaHa 
Poor soul 1 it is her greatest failing, this tendency to makt 
scenes. They bore him horribly ; reproaches tire him ; and 
it is so foolish of poor Dora, too, for they do no good ; they 
never by any possibility can do good, and it is bad for het 
health and everything. He really wonders at her. It would 
be so much more pleasant all round, if she would but tak* 
things easily. He never finds fault with her. What is it 
now ? Can his having escorted Mile. Lalage to Rockaway 
yesterday, and given her those diamond ear-rings, have come 
to— 

Mrs. Fanshawe saves him aD further surmise. She holds 
out the crumpled paper, in a blaze of wrath. 

" Dane Fanshawe t " she cries ; "do you see this ? " 

The question is pertinent, for Mr. Fanshawe lies back in 
his soft chair, his handsome blonde head lying against its 
azure silk back, his handsome blue eyes closed, apparently 
sinking gently into sweetest slumber. But at this ringing 
question he looks up. 

" That, my love ? " He deliberately puts up his eye-glass, 
«nd inspects it " Well, really, you know, one piece of 
paper looks so much like another, that " 

" It is your forged check for five thousand dollars ! " 

" Ah ! " says Mr. Fanshawe, and drops his glass. " Yes, 
the forged check." He looks his wife steadily, quietly, de- 
liberately, in the eyes. "Yes," he says again, "it has a 
familiar look, now that I see it more closely. Well my love," 
— a sneer, devilish in its calm, cold-blooded malignity— 
M what are you going to do about it ? " 

She lays her hand on her heart, and stands panting, look- 
ing at him: One of these ghastly twinges has just grasped 
ner, her lips turn blue, her breath coirts brokenly ; she ab- 
solutely cannot speak, so deadly is her anger 

He sits and regards her unmoved, his face hardening 
slowly until for all feeling it shows, it might' be a handsome 



CBAMLTON PLACE. $lf 

■Mk of white stone. Not one faintest touch of cotnpatsioa 
for the woman before him moves him. An evil life has 
thoroughly brutalized and hardened him ; under all his soft* 
society languor, half real, half affected, there is the pitiless 
heart of a tiger. 

" This — this is all you have to say," she gasps. 

"All," says Mr. Fanshawe, and watches her unflinch- 
ingly. 

His hard, pitiless gaze, something in the cold, cruel steadi- 
ness of his face frightens her — appalls her. She realizes for 
the first time that she is talking to a man of flint — that 
beneath those sleepy blue eyes, that low trainante voice, that 
silken smile, their is neither heart to feel, soul to pity, nor 
conscience to know remorse. Her hands drop ; for the first 
time she has found her master. In all their marital battles 
hitherto she has stormed on to the end, and he has listened, 
bored, wearied, but resigned. " I have drank the wine — I 
must take the lees," his patient silence has said. 

But this is different — something, she cannot define what, 
in his face, in his eyes, turns her cold with a slow, creeping 
sense of fear. She shrinks from him and turns without a 
word. There is a blank, thrilling pause. Not even when 
ihe goes to the window and looks out does he avert that 
basilisk stare. For Dora — her transport of rage is gone, the 
whole world seems dropping away from under her feet She 
is realizing, in a strange, appalled sort of way, that cnis man, 
nearer and more to her than any other human being on 
earth, is a villain, and a villain without one redeeming trait 
of love or pity for herself. Heaven help the wife to 
whom this truth comes home — good or ill she may be — but 
Heaven help her in that hour, for help on earth there can be 
none. 

" Is this the end? " asks the deliberate voice of Mr. Fan- 
shawe, at last "May I go and dress, or has more got to be 
mid? 



Sit CMdMLTOM FLACB. 



"Go!" At answers, in a stifled voice, M and I 
Heaven I may never see your bitter, bad face again." 

She covers her own with her hands, crushed as he 
never seen her crushed in their married life before. She 
sinks down on her knees by the bed, and hides her white, 
quivering face upon it For him, he rises and stands gazing 
down upon her, not one trace of the hard malignity leaving 



" Listen to me," he says, u /have a word or two to say 
and as I don't speak often — in this way — I hope it will have 
weight There comes a time in the lives of most men, I 
suppose, however long-suffering, when curtain-lectures fall 
and conjugal tirades weary. I have borne them for two 
years and a half! I decline to bear them longer. I married 
you for your money — you are listening, I hope, Mrs. Fan 
shawe? — and you know it, or if you do not, the fault is 
your own. It was not worth while to try double-dealing ; I 
never strove to deceive you, or — if you will pardon me — to 
win you. I married you for your money, and your money I 
mean to spend, if not by fair means, why, then by foul. I 
asked you for one thousand dollars a week ago ; you refused, 
and were abusive, according to your amiable custom. I 
said nothing ; I took the easier plan— I went and drew the 
money. I am disposed to be agreeable myself; I like peace, 
and pleasant smiles, and friendly words, and I mean to have 
them — if not at home, why, then abroad. If you raged till 
the day of doom you could not change me or my intentions 
one iota. It is foolish on your part — it is telling on you, my 
angel, you are growing prematurely old and disagreeably 
thin — scraggy, indeed, I may say— and if there is one creature 
on this earth I abhor it is a thin woman. Take my advice, 
Mrs. Fanshawe — it is the first time I have proffered it, it 
shall be the last — while we live together let us sign a treaty 
of peace. What I am I intend to remain. Money I must 
and wiL have ; amusement I must and will have also. Thf 



CHARLTON PLACE. 3 '9 

check I admit It is the first time ; if you loosen your 
puise-strings a little, it may be the last Pardon me for 
having inflicted this long speech upon you, but a man must 
strike in self-defense. Are you quite sure you have no more 
to say ? I am going." 

She makes a gesture, but does not speak — a gesture sc 
full of stricken despair that it might have moved him, but it 
does not There is absolutely a smile on his lips as he 
turns to go. He is victor. 

"A new version of the * Taming of the Shrew, 11 ' he 
minks. "Poor soul I she dies hard, but it will do her good 
in the end." 

" He ain't never a comiri' back I s'pose. Yer don't know 
tothin' 'bout him, do yer ? Yer hain't never seen him no- 
where, have yer ? It's powerful lonesome— oh ! lordy, 
powerful lonesome — sence Cap'n Dick went away." 

It is Daddy who thus delivers himself. He stands shuffling 
from one foot to the other, as if the sand burned him, twist- 
ing his old felt hat between his hands, his dull, protruding 
eyes fixed wistfully on the lady who sits on the grass. She 
looks up, lifting two lovely, soft, dark, tender eyes to his 
face. 

" No, Daddy," she answers ; "lam afraid — I don't think 
he is ever coming back." 

Her eyes wander from his face, and look far away across 
the gold and rose light of the sunset Those large dark eye* 
have as wistful a light, as pathetic a meaning, a? pool 
Daddy's own, and she stretches out one dusk, slim hand, with 
brilliants lighting in, and touches gently the grimy one of the 
" softy." 

" You are sorry ? " she says softly. 

"Oh! ain't I just ! " responds Daddy with a burst "Lor I 
how I hev gone and missed him. Why, lordy I it seems like 
a hundred years sence he went away. I ain't had the life of 
a dog sence then. Hewat good to me, he waa," says Daddy, 



i 



JJO 9BAMLTON PLACM. 



drawing one grimy sleeve across his 
awful good to me alien." 

"Poor fellow I" Vera says, with a pity deeper than Daddy 
can comprehend. 

" I ain't had no peace c? my life ever sence," he goes on, 
crying, and smearing his dirty sleeve across his dirty face, 
" I'm kicked about, and half, starved most the time, and took 
np the rest. I'm took np so continiwal," cries Daddy, "for 
wagrancyand no wisible means o' s'port, that I a'most wishes 
they would keep me took up altogether. Nobody's never 
good to me now anymore, and he was—oh, he was most 
uncommon 1 And he ain't never a comin' back no more ? " 

" No more," Vera repeats. " Oh, Daddy, no more I * 
And then she, too, breaks down, and for a while there is 
silence. She sits on a green knoll just above the shore, the 
long marsh grass, and rank flame-colored flowers, nodding 
about her, the sea wind blowing her dark, loose hair as she 
sits, her hat on her lap. At her feet stretches away the long 
dreary sweep of sand dune, before her lies Shaddeck Bay 
with the amber glitter of the sunset in it, to the left Shaddeck 
Light, falling sun-brown and wind-beaten, to rottenness and 
decay. To the right lies St. Ann's, a few sounds of life 
coming from it faint and far off — the rumble of a passing 
cart over the still streets quite audible here. Boats glide 
about with the red glare on their sails. Daddy lingers near, 
ugly, dirty, ragged, as unpicturesque an object as eye 
noukl see, with a handful of currency in his pocket, and 
wondering admiration for the beauty of the lady before him, 
jtaring vaguely in his untutored, masculine souL She looki 
op with a start from her reverie at last 

" I won't detain you any longer," she says, gently. " Re- 
member, whenever you are in trouble, or in want, come to 
me. Do not be afraid. I will see you always. Help yon 
always. I intend to find you a home somewhere ; you shall 
be starved and betften no longer, my poor, poor Daddy 1 Ht 



CMAXLTCN FLACM. 1U 

was good to you— I cannot take Us place, bat I will d» 
what I can." 

" Thanky," Daddy says, with a last wipe of the coat-sleeve 
across the bleared eyes. " Yes, he were most nncommoa 
good to me, he were." 

So he shambles away, and Vera sits still a long time, 
her eyes full of fathomless pain and regret It is a month 
nearly since their return to Charlton — a week since that 
interview between Mr. and Mrs. Fanshawe, of which Dora 
has not told her. Dora has been strangely quiet since that 
time. Mr. Fanshawe has fluctuated between New York and 
St Ann's in his usual inconsequent fashion, and Mrs. Fan- 
shawe has compressed her lips ominously, and said nothing. 
Perhaps she has an object in view, her birthday is near-* 
her thirty-third, alas i She gives a large party, the house is 
filled already with guests from New York, others are coming, 
me " first families " of St Ann's are bidden, Mrs. Fanshawe 
means to outdo Mrs. Fanshawe. And she determines hei 
husband shall be present 

It is the rarest of rare things for Mr. Fanshawe to grace 
his wife's festivities. No one is more rarely seen at Charlton 
than its nominal master; but on her birthday he must, he 
shall be present The world is beginning to talk of their 
connubial infelicity, ladies to smile and shrug their shouldevs, 
and comment after the usual charitable fashion of the sex. 
What would you? She is fully six years his senior; she 
looks fully six years older than she is ; she is faded, soured, 
sickly, peevish, jealous; and gentlemen, you know, will be 
gentlemen, eta, etc He never cared for her, he married 
her for her money — he admits it; no one ever sees him 
with her ; no one ever meets him at Charlton. And they 
do say he and Lalage— dreadful creature t— are out in the 
park every fine afternoon, and that he drives four-in-hand with 
the coaching-club to High Bridge, Lalage beside him o» 
the box, smoking cigarettes all the war. 

■4* 



9*3 CMAMLTOJi PLACE. 

Dora knows It all, and tets her small teeth in impoteat 
anger and despair. Bat he shall attend her birthday ball- 
common decency requires that She has asked him calmly, 
with forced composure, and he has assented carelessly. 

" Oh, yes ; of coarse ; that will be all right ; he will be 
on hand. The twenty-second or twenty-seventh— -which is it ? 
He has the deuce and all of a memory for dates." 

He palls oat a little betting-book, and looks at her with 
his pleasant smile. Dora's lip quivers ; she is strangely sub- 
dued those last few days, and is looking wretchedly ilL 

"The twenty-third," she answers, and turns from him 
Abruptly. There are husbands who remember their wtve^ 
birthdays, and their wedding-days, and such domestic foolish 
anniversaries, but Mr. Dane Fanshawe is not of their order. 
Still he makes a memorandum of it, and that night asks u> 
wife for more money. 

Her eyes flash, but she retains her calm. She has n» 
money to spare. They have been horribly extravagant ; she 
has purchased a diamond coHar, and this party is costing en- 
ormously. It is quite impossible. She looks up at him in- 
flexibly as she says it He smiles slightly, returns her look, 
and moves away, humming a tune. 

Vera sits on her grassy seat, and watches the crimson, and 
scarlet, and orange splendor of the sunset fade into pink, and 
primrose, and fleecy white, then into pallid gray, slowly lit 
and gemmed with golden stars. The gray deepens to gloom ; 
a chill night-wind rises, a cold, sad sigh from the great Atlan 
tic. TTie tide ebbs away* and the long, black bar is bare- 
mat bar over which she walked to Shaddeck Light and Rich- 
ard Ffrench. How lonely is the night, and the sea, and the 
stars I — the night with its long, low, lamentable wina i the 
sea with its mighty monotone, its deep, eternal, melancholy 
plaint ! the stars so far off in their tremulous, mysterious 
beauty 1 " The stars were called, and they said, ' We art 
here,' and they shone forth with gladness to Him who made 



CMAJUrOJf fLACJL tH 

Something stirs in Vent's heart with a great and sol 
emn thrill — after all, one may live for others, and to win a 
place beyond these golden clusters, even when one's own lift 
has come to an end. 

Where is Richard Ffrench? Vera does not know. She 
has neither heard from him, nor of him, since that summer 
afternoon in London. He is in Cuba, perhaps — fighting 
once more, or wounded, or ill, or dead. She knows nothing. 
She reads all the Cuban news, but she never sees his name. Of 
what followed after her interview, between him and Dora, she 
Joes not know. Dora has never said, she has never asked, 
What does it matter ? All is dead and done with, the story 
ts over, the book is closed, her romance is ended ; there is 
lothing left but to begin again, with all life's sweetest possi- 
bilities shut out. 

Darkness closes down, darkness braided with sparkling 
stars. The sea lies a great, sighing, black mystery; the 
wind has the icy breath of coming winter in its sweep. Shad- 
deck Light is only a darker shadow among the shadows, 
desolate, forsaken, forlorn— something to shudder at How 
strange to think she ever spent a night there ; no one will 
ever spend a night there again. She rises, chill in the frosty 
wind, puts on her hat, wraps her shawl about her, and turns 
to go home. Dora's guests will miss her, and her life belongs 
to Dora now. 

Poor little Dot I how sorry she is for her — how thin and 
worn she grows— how frightfully frequent are those terrible 
heart-pangs. It is all she can do not to hate Dane Fanshawe 
— this cruel, smiling, suave fine gentleman, who breaks his 
wife's heart as coolly and with as little compunction as he 
shoots a sea-gulL In every human face there lies latent a 
look of cruelty— circumstances may or may not bring it out, 
but it is there — in his, though, more markedly than in most. 
But she is powerless— it is simply one of the things that ***** 
be left alone — the less said to Dora f hc better. He is always 



ftfti QMAXLTON FLACE, 

especially attentive and deferential to herself— -ate is a yotmf 
and handsome woman, and she is not his wife. What a tr» 
mendous puzzle life is — the troth comes well home to Misi 
Martinez this evening, as she flutters swiftly homeward in ths 
Jack night breeze — hard to enter, harder to lire through, and 
uardest of all to end I 

The house is all lit when she draws near, its whole front 
•inkling with light. She enters and passes upstairs to her 
room. Every one is dressing for dinner — it is a full-dress cer- 
emonial every day now, and then there follows the long 
evening in the drawing-room, with music, and flirtation, and 
carpet dances, and cards. Vera wearies of it all, not that life 
has grown a bore, or pleasure begun to pall, but satietr does 
beget disgust. She taps at Dora's door on her way. 

" Come in," says Dora's voice. 

Vera enters, and stands in wonder. 

What is the matter with Dot ? There is a tierce, wild fire 
in her eyes, her pale face is excited, she sits writing rapidly 
at her desk. A buff envelope lies on the floor, a paper — a 
telegram near it. 

" Read that," Dora says. 

She spurns with her foot the paper, and writes on. Vera 
stoops and picks it up. It is from Mr. Fanshawe, and is dated 
Philadelphia. 

" Cannot come on twenty-third. Mast manage tho high jinkg without 
mm. Obliged to go to Baltimore, With yom many happy ratarni all 



Um 

" Dams Fastskawk. 1 * 

Vera drops the telegram as if it had stung her ; she knows 

how Dora has set her heart on his being present at the ball. 

" Oh, this is too bad, too bad I " she cries ouc 

Dora looks up ; to the last day of her life Vera never toe. 

gets that look, nor the slow, weird, icy smile that goes with 

fit 



WUSMAND AND WML J»| 

* Lalage b in Philadelphia,* she says. 

" Dot ! " 

" He has gone after her. How do I *now ? I have cm 
ployed a detective I " 

She laughs aloud at her sister's start and look of consterna* 
tion — Dora's wild, eldrich laugh. 

" A detective, my dear ; it has come to that The tab- 
gram has just arrived ; here is my answer. Read it" 

Vera takes it, stupefied. 

" As yon have gone with that woman, stay with her. Co— km ae 
more. I win never live with you again, so help bm God I " 

An hour later Mrs. Fanshawe sits among her guests, 
beautifully dressed, painted, perfumed, smiling, radiant with 
life and pleasure. Her shrill laugh rings out, oftener and 
shriller than any one ever has heard it before. 

" What a very dissonant laugh Mrs. Fanshawe' s is ? " one 
sensitive lady says, shrinkingly, " and how wildly her eyes 
glisten. I hope she does not use opium." 

Vera sits silent, pale, frightened, distressed. And far 
away, as strange a message, perhaps, as ever flashed over 
the wires ; is speeding on its lightning course to Mr. Dane 
Fanshawe 



CHAPTER X 

HUSBAND AND WITS. 

jT is the night of the birthday-ball, a dark, windy, 
overcast night, threatening rain. The Charlton 
mansion is ablaze with light, from attic to cellar 
til is bustle, preparation, expectation. In their rooms* 
the guests of the bouse are dressing. In hers sits the mi* 




3*6 MUUANT AJT0 WtPM. 

tress — Am whose natal day all the splendor of to-night k la 
honor. 

Ftlician is busily and skilfully at work ; the result is to 
surpass every previous effort. 

"Make me young and pretty to-night, Felician," her 
nsistress cries, with a gay laugh, u if you never do it in your 
life again ! " 

And Ftlician is doing her best. The golden hair is 
frizzed, and puffed, and curled, and banded in a wonderful 
and bewildering manner to the uninitiated. Not much of all 
that glittering chevelure dorie grows on Dora Fanshawe's 
head, but who besides Felician is to know that ? Her 
Iress is one of Worth's richest and rarest — a dream of 
izure silk and embroidered pink rosebuds, point lace more 
costly than rubies, and diamonds — such diamonds as will 
not flash in her rooms to-night. 

She wears brilliants in a profusion indeed that is almost 
barbaric — they flash on her Angers ana arms — woefully thin 
arms, that it requires all Felician's skill to drape so that 
their fragility may not show ; they sparkle in her ears, in 
her hair, and run like a river of light round her neck. 
But her blue eyes outshine them; they are filled with a 
streaming light, her cheeks are flushed, her dry lips are 
fever red. 

"Make me pretty to-night, Ftiician — make me young 
and pretty to-night I " is again and again her cry; until 
even Felician looks at her in wonder. 

Perhaps after all the hint of the lady last night concerning 
opium is not entirely without foundation. She is in a state 
of half delirious excitement, she hardly feels the floor beneath 
her — she seems to float on buoyant air. 

Life looks all rose-color and radiance — pair poverty 
shame, sorrow, things blotted out of the world, ihe is in 
the dawn of a new life, she is on the verge of i complete 
revolution of all that has hitherto made up her existence 



BUSBAND AND WIFE. 3*/ 

No on* if old at three and thirty ; Ninon de FEnelos won, 
hearts at eighty, notably her own grandson's among them ; 
and she is still pretty — where are the crow's feet, and the 
bluish pallor of cheeks and lips to-night ? No one shall spoil 
her pleasure, no one shall darken her life ; freed from Dan* 
Fanshawe, she will begin anew, and eat, drink, and be merry, 
and hold black care and blue devils at bay forevermore I 

The sound of singing reaches her, it comes softly and 
sweetly from Vera's room. Vera dresses always with a 
rapidity little short of miraculous in Mrs. Fanshawe's eyes. 
It is only on the sad side of thirty, that women stand for 
wistful hours before their mirrors, gazing ruefully on what 
they see. Dora has an innate, inborn, ingrained passion for 
•dress ; Vera forgets what she wears five minutes after it is 
on. Her sweet, fresh, young voice comes from across the 
corridor to Mrs. Fanshawe's ears. 

" Late, late, 10 late! and dark the night and cafll! 
Late, late, 10 UU! but we can enter atul. 
Too late, too late! ye cannot enter now. 

•No light had we, for that we do repent } 
And learning this tne bridegroom will relent 
Too late, too Ute! ye cannot enter now." 

it is the song of the Foolish Virgins. There is profound 
pathos in the words as Vera sings them. Dora lifts her eyes 
to a picture that hangs on a wall opposite, a picture she has 
brought from Florence, aid that tell? the same mournful 
story her sister sings. It is a weird, melancholy thing enough, 
but it has struck Mrs. Fanshawe's capricious fancy. It is a 
night scene ; the " blackness of darkness " shrouds the sky 
like a pall, and faintly through that dense gloom you catch 
me shadowy outline of a fair white mansion — faint gleams 
of fight coming from its closed portals. Outside that closed 
door the shadowy forms of women crouch — the whole picture 
uvked is shadowy and indistinct, in distorted positions of 



)*• XVSMAND AMD WIFE. 

•offering Aid despair. Their unlit lamps hang from thefa 
nerveless hands, their feces are shrouded in their (alien hair. 
One alone lifts her face to the rayless night-sky, and a glim- 
mer from the door (alls on and lights it It is a face not 
easily forgotten ; some deadly horror, some awful fear, loss 
love, laughing — all are in that white, uplifted, tortured face 
"And The Door Was Shut," is the name of the painting. 
A singular and spectral sort of picture for a lady's chamber, 
but it has a fearful sort of a fascination for Dora. She knows 
that solemn, beautiful story, although she never opens and 
makes a scoff of the Book wherein it is told. What — the 
thinks it now, a dread thrill shuddering through all her wild 
exultation of feeling — what if all that Book tells be true, 
what if after this life of purple and fine linen, and feasting 
sumptuously erery day, another begins, that tremendous 
other preachers preach of— of darkness and torment, and 
the eternal wailing of lost souls ? And if there be that other, 
what place does it hold for all those awful eternal years for 
such as she ? 

"NoHgfat; to late! and dark and chffl the mi^t ! » 

The sweet pathetic voice comes across the hall again s 

44 O, let *■ in that we may find the light ! 
Too late, too late 1 tie cannot enter now. 

"Have we not heard the bridegroom ii to sweet? 
O f let nt in, tho» late, to kiss his feet ! 
No, no, too late 1 Ye cannot enter now." 

Dora's excited nerves cannot bear it She puts her hands 
•ver her ears with a sharp, sudden cry. 

"It is horrible I I hate itl Go to Miss Vera's room, 
FeJician, and tell her to stop singing that wretched song, and 
if sne is dressed to come and talk to me here." 

• ••••** 

One hour later. Over the road leading from St Ann's to 



wusbjnd jjtb wm J*) 

Charlton Place, two men waik, one rapidly, in long, steady 
itrides, the other more slowly, and keeping well cut of sight. 
They are not together — the lagging wayfarer lags purposely 
to avoid the rapid walker before. It is a lonely road on a 
•unlit noonday. It is a desolately lonely road on a starlets 
night The trees nearly meet overhead, beneath is a gulf of 
darkness. A fine drizzling rain is beginning to fall, a high 
complaining wind, with a touch of November in its quality, 
swirls through the tree-tops, and whistles sharply past the 
ears of the wayfarers. The surf cannonades the shore in 
dull, heavy booms, and the sun-charged sky gives promise of 
a wild fall storm before morning. 

" Bad for the coasters and the fisher folk," the first pedes- 
trian says to himself, struggling with a fiercer blast than 
before. " A wild night at Shaddeck Light 1 " 

A wild night at Shaddeck Light — a wild night everywhere, 
a wild night for belated pedestrians, a wild night for Mrs 
Fanshawe's guests. But in Mrs. Fanshawe's brilliantly-lit 
parlors, heavy curtains shut out of sight the blackness, out 
of hearing the wind. A fine band of music, down from the 
city, drowns with resonant waltz music the beat of the rain 
on the glass, and the dash of the surf on the shore. Mrs. 
Fanshawe, a vision from dreamland or operaland, in her 
Paris dress and diamonds, her gilded hair and rose-bloom 
cheeks, receives her guests like a queen. Men look at her, 
stricken with sudden wonder and admiration — very young 
men particularly, whose way it is invariably to fall in love 
with women a dozen years their elder. It is so safe, too, 
to flutter about this gorgeous moth, who showers smiles on 
all with dazzling impartiality. " The greatest charm of a mar- 
ried woman is invariably her — husband." Dora Lightwood, 
mtat three-and-thirty, would be a sharp-boned husband-hunt- 
er, to be feared and shunned — Dora Fanshawe, married and 
brilliant, eclipses every young maiden present with her auda- 
cious bcauU du diable. Not one lair virgin of them aLh-not 



S90 MXMBAMD AMD WIFE. 

stately, dark-eyed Miss Martinez lerself, will receive half the 
adulation to-night that will Dane Fanshawe's neglected wife. 

The foremost of the two men reaches the open entrance 
gates, and the strains of the " Beautiful Blue Danube flea! 
out and welcome him. A look of annoyance passes over 
his face. 

" A party," he mutters ; "hare I come in vain then after 
all ? No I " he adds, suddenly, " let who will be here, I 
know she will see me." 

He draws near the house, bright with illumination, and 
pauses. The music sinks and swells, flitting forms pass 
rapidly. He stands irresolute a moment and gazes at the 
picture. Around him the darkness, the drifting rain, the 
surging trees, the long lamentable blast, himself, a solitary 
figure — within there, floods of gas-light, crashes of music, a 
wilderness of flowers, and the " dancers dancing in tune." 
The contrast strikes him with a jarring sense of pain, he turns 
impatiently away, and goes round to the side of the house, 
with the air of one who knows his locality welL A door 
stands slightly ajar — he enters a hall, and a woman-servant 
passing through with a tray of ices stops and stares. 

"Can I see Harriet Hart?" he asks. "Is she house- 
keeper here still ? M 

" Miss Hart is housekeeper — yes, sir," answers the woman, 
still staring. 

He is a gentleman evidently, also, evidently he is not a 
guest 

" Who wants Miss Hart ? " calls a sharp voice, and Har 
net herself appears superfine in brown silk, a shade or two 
lighter than her complexion, her little black eyes as sharp, 
her flat figure flatter, her acrid voice more acrid, if possible, 
&an of old. 

The stranger taaes off his hat with a smile, an: stands r» 
tealed. She gives a little shriek and recofl. 

"Lord above I" she cries, " Captain Dick l" 



MUSBAND AND WIFE. 31* 

"Bad millings always come back, do they not, Mm Har* 
litt ? I see you well, I hope, after all these years ? " 

She does not reply; she stands silently staring at him, 
aghast. 

" I have given you a shock, I am afraid. It is I in the 
flesh, I assure you, and no apparition. What is going on— 
a ball?" 

" A birthday-ball — missis* birthday. Good Lord I Captain 
Dick, what a turn you have given me 1 Who'd ever a thought 
it?* 

" So it seems," he says, half laughing, half impatient. " It 
is a mistake, I find, taking people by surprise. We used to 
be tolerable friends, I believe, but you really do not seem 
over glad to see me. Well, it is the way of the world, oat of 
tight out of mind." 

" It ain't my way, though," says Harriet, grimly, and stretch- 
es out her hand. 

Six years ago, if any corner of Harriet's vestal heart could 
be said to be bestowed on obnoxious man, bright, debonair, 
handsome Dick Ffrench, sunny of glance, sunny of smile, gay 
of voice, dashing of manner, had that corner, and no rival has 
ousted him since. 

"Welcome home, Captain Dick, to the house that ought 
to call you master instead o' them that ain't fit to wipe your 
shoes. I'm glad to see ye, and there ain't many men folk 
on airth Harriet Hart would say thai to. When did you 
come ? " 

" To-night from New York. Harriet," abruptly, " I want 
to see — Miss Vera." 

He pauses before the name, and flushes as he says it. 
Harriet's sharp, beady black eyes seem to go through his 
rough overcoat, straight to his spinal marrow, as she standi 
and transfixes him. 

" Yes ? " she says, shutting up her thin mouth Kke a 
u Miss Vera I — h-m-m 1 Mrs. Fansha we, too ? " 



3P BUSBAND AND WmL 

"No* Mrs. Fanshawe need not be disturbed Tell likf 

44 Come this way," cats in Harriet, and lead* him to her 
own sitting-room. 

It is a cozy apartment, as befits a housekeeper of Miss 
Hart's temper and long-standing at Charlton. A bright red 
coal fire burns in the grate, a cat curls up comfortably before 
it, a rocker sways by the hearth-rug, china dogs and vases 
are on the mantle, red moreen shuts out the rain-beaten 
night, and shuts in the glowing fire-lit " interior. n A flash 
of recognition comes into her visitor's eyes as he enters— a 
flash half pleasure, half pain. 

14 It is like old times to be here," he says, standing before 
the fire. 

"Ah, old times," responds Harriet "I wish to goodness 
gracious mercy old times would come back. We had some 
peace and comfort of our lives then. I'm old myself, and 
new times don't suit me — lazy fine gentlemen a loafin' about, 
and chuckin' of the chamber-maids under their sassy chins ; 
cross missises that an angel would have to give warnin' to 
every other month ; eatin' and drinkin' goin' on perpetual 
from nine in the mornin' to nine at night ; a rush o' people 
fillin' the house and draggin' the help off their feet ; wimmin 
with their clothes hangin' off their bodies, only a strap of lace 
across their nasty shoulders to keep 'em on ; playin' billiards 
and ciookay, and gaddin' about with the men folks, and they 
taakin' the whole place beastly with their cigars. Faugh 1 if 
it wasn't for Miss Vera, I'd a left long ago." 

He lifts his head at the sound of her name ; the rest of 
Harriet's valedictory has been lost 

" Miss Vera," he repeats ; " yes, Harriet, tell Miss Vera 1} 
am here. Tell her I have come from New York on the eve 
of my departure for Cuba to see her, and will detain her from 
her friends but a few moment!." 

He leans his elbow on the low chimney-piece, uid seems 



WUSBJLND AND WIPM J3J 



to relapse into reverie. Harriet gives him cue last k< 
glance as she tarns to go. Vera is his wife — at least they 
went to church one day to be married — why then does she 
not behave as such P It is part and parcel of the new state 
of things going on at Charlton, of the topsy-turvy sort of life 
these people lead, dining until nine, dancing until one, break- 
fasting in bed near noon, married women making eyes at 
unmarried men, a few of the fastest and friskiest young mat- 
rons smoking I 

Deep disgust weighs down Harriet's soul, speechless wrath 
flames upon them out of her needle eyes. Miss Vera is the 
leaven that lightens the whole mass. She never carries on 
like a skittish young colt in a paddock, she never makes a 
fool of herself and disgraces her sex with these slim-waisted, 
cigar-smoking, mustached young dandies, who part their hair 
down the middle, and stare at her (Harriet) as though she 
were some extinct species of the dodo. But she is a married 
woman, and she does not live with her husband, thus much 
she conforms to her world and her order. 

Harriet goes to the different doors and scrutinizes the dan- 
cers. Scorn inexpressible sits on her majestic Roman nose 
as she looks at the waltzers — half-dressed waists clasped so 
closely in black broadcloth arms. She is not there. " For 
which, oh, be joyful 1 " says Miss Hart, turning away. Yon- 
der is her missis, looking as if a rainbow and several pink 
and blue clouds had been cut up to make her gown. " We'd 
a scorned to put red and blue together in my time," she solil- 
oquizes; "we'd better taste. 1 ' Among all the reeling, 
swaying, voluptuous-looking throng Mm Fanshawe whirls 
and wheels, the bright, particular star of the night, waltzing 
as if her feet touched air. 

Vera is not here. Harriet visits the music-room, the con- 
servatory, and finds her at last actually sitting out the waltz, 
talking to a popular poet down from New V ork, and looking 
as if she preferred it 



334 HUSBAND AND WIFE. 

u Miss Vera, 11 in a rasping whisper. 

She tarns from her long-haired poet with a 

" Yes, Harriet," she says, in her gentle way. 

41 There's a visitor for yoa; he's in my room, »wabW 
He's down from New York, and wants to see you." 

" A visitor," Vera says, in surprise, " for me ? Not a 
guest ? Who can it be ? It is not," laughing slightly — " it 
is not Daddy?" 

"Daddy I" retorts Harriet, with scorn. "Well ! if s the 
next thing — it's Daddy's master, leastways as was. It s Cap* 
tain Ffrench." 

Vera rises to her feet She forgets poet and party, she 
stands confounded and looks at the speaker. 

" It is Captain Ffrench— Captain— Dick— Ffrench," says 
Harriet, tersely, "and he's a-waitin' in my room a purpose 
to see you. " He wont keep you long ; he told me to tell 
you so, and he's goin' to Cuba, he told me to tell you that, 
too." 

She puts her hand to her head. The shock of surprise it 
great, but the shock of sudden, intense joy is greater. Colo 
nel Ffrench here 1 Her heart gives one great, gU& bound, 
and then pulses on, a hundred a minute. It to with some 
thing less than the usual high-bred grace and *«se, for whict 
Miss Martinez is justly famous, that she turns to her poet 
and makes her excuses. Then without a wurd to Harriet 
she follows her to the door of that lady's boudoir. There 
Miss Hart unseals her lips. 

" He's in there a-waitin' ; you don't want m* to introduce 
you, I reckon," she says, with grim humor, and goes. 

Vera stands a moment. In that moment a change comes 
over her; she is the Vera the world knows again. The 
shock is past ; there is no need for her to be glad to see this 
man. He has mistaken her once, he shall not agaro. Dora's 
words return to her ; whatever the business that brings him 
here, it is quite unnecessary that she should show gladness 



WVSBAWB AND WIX*. JJ$ 

at his coming, or trouble him with an efrashe welcome. 
There is not a man dancing there in the ball-room who is 
not as much to her as this man is ever likely to be. She 
takes herself well in hand, then opens the door and goes 



He turns quickly. Miss Martinez* • taste in dress has the 
effect always of looking simple, and gives beholders — male 
beholders — the idea of beauty unadorned. In reality, her 
wardrobe rivals in expense Dora's own. She wears white 
to-night—- creamy white silk, with ornaments of dull yellow 
gold, some touches of rich old lace, and a crimson rose in 
her hair. Her splendid eyes light like brown stars the dusk 
pallor of her Spanish face. That pallor is deeper than usual, 
the laces rise and fall with the rebellious beatings of the heart 
beneath them, but he does not distinguish the pallor, does 
not hear the heart-beats, so no harm is done. 

" This is s very unexpected pleasure," she says, smilingly, 
and with the instinct of hospitality holds out her hand. 
" Let me welcome you back to Charlton, Colonel Ffrench." 

He holds for a second the slender unresponsive hand, thee 
drops it, and places a chair for her. 

" Will you not sit, too ? " she asks. 

" No," he answers, and resumes his place by the chimney 
and his former position. She has not said much, but some- 
thing in her tone, in her eyes, chills him, as the cold night 
wind sighing about the gables could never do. In her 
beauty and her pride, her rich dress, the gleam of yellow 
gold, as she sits in the ruby shine of the fire, she seems so 
far oft; so high above him, that he turns his eyes away with 
a feeling akin to despair. 

He realizes, as he has never i*alized before, that \he Vera 

of six years ago is as utterly gone out of this world as though 

the daisies grew over her grave. This beautiful, reticent, 

graceful, chill-voiced, fine lady, is no more his black ey4 

aughing, romping, loving, madcap Vera than- 



Jj6 WOMAN* AHB WfPM. 

The brown eyes flash up their golden light suddenl j upon 

him. 

"When did yon come?" die asks— "from England, 1 
mean ? " 

« Three days ago." 

" I trust you left all our mutual friends veiy well ? n 

He turm his eyes, fixed moodily on the fire, with a swift, 
passionate glance to her face. 

"I saw Sir Beltran Talbot before I left!" he say* 
abruptly. 

" Yes ? " Her roice does not change, but a faint coiflt 
rises, and the hand that holds her fan is not quite steady. 

" And I know that you refused him. Vera, why ? " 

She meets his glance steadily — slow, intense surprise and 
anger in her eyes. 

" I decline to answer that question. I deny your right t* 
ask it" 

"I claim no right,' 9 he says, steadily. "It should be 
ample enough, Heaven knows ; but a right enforced — in this 
case — would hardly be worth the claiming. Vera, I wonder 
if any other human being ever changed so utterly in six 
years as you have done! There is not a trace, not a tone, 
not a look, of the little Vera of that past summer left." 

A smile breaks the proud, set gravity of her face — a smile 
of triumph. 

'• You preferred that other Vera ?" she says. 

He looks at her again, and the story his eyes tell, is the 
story told since the world began — to be told till the world 
ends. 

' 4 1 liked that other Vera," he answers ; " I love this 1 " 

She is lying back in the chair ; now she sits suddenly 
erect The words give her an absolute shock. She believes 
Dora's fiction ; she believes implicitly in that " some one n 
in Cuba ; she has never dreamed herself other than a drag 
on his life, not easily gotten rid of; and now, to hear tins I 



MUSBjLND an* wife. 33? 

* I* all theie years," he goes on, " the image of that othcc 
fcra has never left me. I saw her always as I saw hec 
last " 

He stops abruptly at a gesture from her. 

"As you saw me last," she repeats slowly , " Yes, neither 
of us is likely ever to forget that. 1 * 

Some of the old pain, the old humiliation of that day re- 
turns to her now across the years. Again she is crouching 
in the summer-house, her wedding-dress crushed amid the 
rank weeds and damp grasses, listening to the strident voice 
that denounces her as a bold creature, lost to all modesty Of 
maidenly pride. A flush passes over her face, a light comes 
into her angry eyes, her fluttering hands grow steady, her 
swift heart-beats cease. Some perverse spirit enters into 
her. If she ever acknowledges to this man, forced to marry 
hei, that she loves him, then she deserves all Mrs. Charl- 
ton has said. 

" I saw always the little Vera I had left," he goes on — 
u my dear, little, bright-eyed child-bride; I came back and 
found her a woman, more beautiful than I had ever thought 
my little gipsy could be, and from the first hour I knew her 
I loved her. That she had forgotten me, except as one who 
stood between her and happiness, I was told, and did not 
loubt It seemed natural enough. But I begin to doubt 
M I have heard, some truth there may be, but also many 
falsehoods. You refused Sir Beltran Talbot — you could 
not do otherwise, of course, but it is the knowledge of that 
refusal that has sent me here. Vera, I have little — your 
world will tell you nothing, to offer — but my love, deep, 
changeless, true, I give ! Is our marriage indeed to be 
looked upon as a misfortune ? Can you never be my wife 
in reality, as well as in name ? " 

He stops, catching his breath hard. It is not when the 
heart is fullest the lips are most eloquent The proudly 
fcaikfeome face before him does not soften one whit. For 
IS 



3}S mMBAHB ANB WiFM. 

the fin* time the doubts Richard Ffrench's word. She fa ii 
a false position— is it to save her from it he speaks now ? 

M I know of old," she answers, " how romantic and duV 
alrous is Colonel Ffrench's sense of duty. It led him once 
to many a foolish, flighty school-girl, when he would hare 
done much better to hare rated her soundly for her folly in 
running after him, and gone and left her. If I had loved 
Sir Beltran Talbot, perhaps not even the fact of that non- 
sensical marriage would have been strong enough to prevent 
my telling him so, at least I am not a very perfect person; 
no one knows that better than I. But my marriage had 
nothing to do with my refusal — understand that As to tne 
sacrifice you propose to make, in accepting the wife thrust 
upon you six years ago, while deeply grateful, I yet decline* 
My life suits me very welL I am not a blighted being. I 
can dispense with lovers in the present, and a husband m 
the future, extraordinary as it may seem. Your friend I 
shall always be, Colonel Ffrench ; your wife, other than I 
am now — never I " 

Her pride is strong within her, it rings in her voice, » 
flashes in her eyes. Surely she has vindicated herself * 
last 

For a moment he does not speak. In that pause a greal 
burst of music comes from the ball-room, the first bars of a 
grand triumphal march. He speaks first 

11 You mean this ? " he slowly says. 

" I mean this/ she answers, and meets his eyes fulL 

" Then there is no more to be said. Pardon me for hav- 
ing said so much, for having taken you from your friends. 
Good-night, and good-by." 

An impulse is upon her, thoroughly contradictory, and 
thoroughly womanly, to call him back, to claim him, keep 
him, love him. Vera is a very woman, and consistently in- 
consistent A flush sweeps over her (ace, to the vesy 
pies. 



A CRY IN THE NIGHT. 339 

" Oh, come back ! do not go ! * is on her lips, but ner Hpf 
refuse to speak. She stands so a moment, battling with het 
pride, and in that moment he goes. The door closes behind 
Vim ; the sweep of the triumphal march speeds him ; he is 
gone without even the poor return of an answer to his good 
night Pride has fought and won. 

A wise general has said, that next to a great defeat a great 
victory is the most cruel of all things. Perhaps Vera real- 
izes this now. She sits where he has left her, feeling faint 
and sick, her face hidden in her hands. 

The crashing tide of the music comes down to her ; the 
feet of the dancers echo overhead. She must go back to 
them, make one of them, wear a smiling face to the end. 
She loves Richard Ffrench, and she has sent him away ; in 
the last half hour she has done what she will regret her 
whole life long. 

Meantime the unbidden guest is gone. Once more he if 
in the outer ^^rkness, in the night and the storm. The mel- 
ancholy ram still drips, drips ; the melancholy wind blows in 
long, sighing blasts ; the black trees toss about like tall 
specters against the blacker sky. And a figure sheltered 
beneath them — the lagging pedestrian of an hour before — 
watches him with sinister eyes until he is out of sight 



CHAPTER XL 

▲ CRY IK THE NIGHT. 

IRS. FANSHAWE'S ball is what Mrs. Fanahawe 
haj meant it to be — a brilliant success. Her own 
spirits never flag ; she dances incessantly, the red 
of her cheeks redder, the ught of her eyes brighter, as the 
hours wear on. Who shall say that this radiant little hostess, 




340 A CRY IS THE NIGHT. 

dancing like a Bacchante, wild with high spirits, flirting with 
the men about her with desperate recklessness and levity, is 
a neglected, slighted, supplanted, unloved wife ? At suppei 
she drinks iced champage as if parched with fever-thirst, 
until Vera's brows contract with wonder and alarm. She 
keeps near her sister through it all ; something in Dora's 
wild excitement startles her ; she dances scarcely once after 
her return to the ball-room. 

"Where have you been ? " Dora asks, hitting her a per- 
fumed blow with her fan. " Why do you wear that owl-like 
lace ? This is no place for owlish faces. Why do you not 
dance ? Everybody has been asking for you. What is the 
matter with you to-night, my solemn Vera ? " 

Her elfish laugh rings out — she flits on. A gentleman 
passing smiles to the lady on his arm. 

"A case of twinkle, twinkle, little start" he remarks. 
"What a radiantly happy woman our charming hostess 
must be I " 

The lady shrugs her shoulders, and puts out a scornful 
little chin. 

" She is half crazy to-night, or — tipsy with her own cham- 
pagne ! Did you not see how she drank at supper ? It 
was perfectly shocking. See her sister watching her. 
Beautiful girl, Miss Martinez — do you not think ? — a perfect 
type of the handsomest sort of brunette." 

The gentleman smiles slightly, knowing better than to ac- 
cept this artful challenge; but the eyes that rest for a mo- 
ment on Vera have in them a light that makes his fair friend 
bite he : lip. 

" Some romance attaches to her — it does not seem quite 
clear what — but something connected with Dick Ffrench. 
You remember Captain Dick, of course. I h*vt heard, but 
that I do not believe, that she was privately married to hint 
before he went away." 

"Fortunate Dick Ffrentb I ' 



A CRY IN THE NIGH1. 34* 

M Oh, it is a myth of course — they say being the Duly 
authority. It is added that she was very desperately in lore 
with him, but that statement also is to be taken with a pinch 
of salt. She was little better than a child at the time — I 
ecollect her well ; a tall, slim girl, with a thin, dark face, big 
black eyes, and hardly a trace of the stately beauty we all 
admire now. Look at Mrs. Fanshawe with Fred Howell ! 
Really, Mr. Fanshawe should be here to keep his wife in 
order. No one advocates matrimonial freedom more than 
I do, but there is a line, and she oversteps it Upon my 
word she is quite too horrid' 1 

Such comments, from ladies principally, run the round of the 
rooms. The gentlemen, more indulgent, only glance at each 
other, and smile. All recall afterward, when the tragedy of 
this night rings through the country with a thrill, her brilliance, 
her flashes of wit, her reckless spirits, her incessant dancing, 
her flushed cheeks, her streaming eyes, her flashing dia- 
monds. Censorious tongues stop then appalled, fair censors 
falter — they recall her only as a bright little butterfly, look- 
ing hardly accountable for her acts, so fair, so frail, so almost 
unearthly. But just now, before the curtain falls on that 
last act, and the intoxication of music, and waltzing, and 
wine is at its height, they do not spare her. One or two 
words fall on Vera's ears, and her eyes flash out their indig- 
nation on the speakers. They are her guests, they break 
her bread and eat her salt, and sit in judgment on her. But 
oh 1 what ails Dot ? How rash she is — she has never gond 
to such extremes before. It is more of Dane Fanshawe'* 
work ; he has goaded her to madness ; this is her reckless 
kevenge. 

Perhaps it is as well for Vera's peace of mind that no 
time is left her to think of herself or her own wayward folly. 
She has acted like a fool in one way — Dora is acting like a 
fool in another ; there is little to choose between them, that 
she admits bitterly. She keeps as close to Dora as may be < 



34* A CRY IN THE NIGHT. 

she tries to restrain her unpercetved ; she resolutely rsftass 
to dance. 

" For pity's sake, Dot, do not go on so— every one is look- 
ing at you/ 1 she whispers, angrily, once. "You are insane, 
[ think, to-night Do not dance with Fred Howell again, 
He ought to be ashamed of himself " 

But Dora interrupts with one of her frequent bursts of 
laughter. 

" Oh* Fred, listen here ! " she calls ; " here is richness I 
Look at Vera's owlish face ; listen to her words of wisdom. 
4 Do not dance with Fred Howell again. He ought to be 
ashamed of himself 1 ' Are you ashamed, Fred ? You ought 
♦o be, if my sober sister says so — she is never wrong/ 1 

Mr. Howell stoops and whispers his answer. He glances 
at Vera with a malicious smile, he owes her a grudge for 
more than one cut direct, and he cordially hates super- 
cilious Dane Fanshawe. He is paying a double debt to- 
night, in compromising his hates. Vera draws back, indig- 
nant and disgusted, and sees them go, Dora clinging to his 
anr. Fred Howell's tall, dark head bent over her blonde 
one — the most pronounced flirtation possible. 

But it ends at last. Mrs. Fanshawe, foolish though she be 
ta many things, is wise enough never to let daylight sur- 
prise her well-bred orgies, and stare in on haggard faces and 
leaden eyes. A little after three the guests begin to dei>art, 
at half-past the roll of carriages is continual, at four all but 
the guests are gone. And when the last good-night is said, 
Dora Fanshawe drops into a chair, and lifts a lace to hex 
sister, a face so drawn, so worn, so miserable, that all hex 
sins and follies are forgotten. As by the touch of a magic 
wand, every trace of youth and prettiness departs in a 
second. 

* I am tired to death !" she says. * I am tired to death J 
She draws a long, hard breath, and flings up her arms over 
her head. "Ian tired to death — tired — tired — tired I " 



A €MY JN TME NIGHT. 34] 

There is weariness unspeakable in the gestae, heart-sick- 
ness so utter, so desperate, that Vera's anger melts like 
snow. She has meant to scold Dora for her madness, but all 
words of reproach die away in a passion of pity and love. 

" My poor little dear ! " she says. As a mother might, 
the gathers the flower-decked, jewel-crowned head to her 
breast. " Oh 1 my Dot, you have not been yourself to- 
night. I have been frightened lot you. I am so glad it is 
all o\er, and that you can rest. No wonder you are tired— 
you have danced every dance. Let me take you Xm your 
room, and help you to bed." 

Without a word Dora rises, and trails her rich ball-robe 
slowly and wearily up the stairs to her own room. Here 
*he sinks in a powerless sort of way again into the first chair. 

"lam dead tired," she repeats, mechanically. " If 1 only 
could sleep and not wake for the next forty-eight hours, 
I might be rested by the end of that time. Nothing less will 
Jo." 

She lifts her heavy and dim eyes, and they fall on the 
dreary picture of the " Foolish Virgins." There they remain 
in sombre silence for a long time. Vera sends away Fdi- 
cian and disrobes Dora herself with swift, deft fingers, with 
soft, soothing touches. 

"Do you know," Dora says, at length, "that through it 
all — the crash of the band, and the whirl of the German, 
and the talk of those men — the face of that woman there 
has haunted me like a ghost ? I can understand now how 
men take to drink to drown memory or remorse. All these 
long hours it has been beside me. Sometimes when I looked 
in Fred Howell's face — faugh ! what a fool he is ! — it was 
the deadly white face of that crouching woman I saw. And 
the words went with the vision — ' Too late, too late 1 ye 
cannot enter now I 9 They have been ringing in my ears 
like a death-knell." 

"You are morbid ; your nerves are all unstrung," is Verafs 



344 a cmr in twm memr. 

answer. M I wish I had not sung it It is a weiid picture— 
gloomy enough to haunt any one. Do not look at it anj 
more. Shut your poor tired eyes while I brush out yoo 
hair ; it will quiet you." 

But the sombre blue eyes never leave the picture, and, 
when she speaks again, her question startles her sister, so 
that she nearly drops the brush. 

" Vera," she says, " are you afraid to die ? " 

"Dot!" 

" Afraid of the awful loneliness, the awful darkness, the 
awful Unknown. Vera, Vera 1 /am. I am afraid to grow 
old ; but I hope — I hope — I hope I may be seventy, eighty, 
ninety, before I die 1 I am afraid of death — horribly afraid 1 
If one could come back from the dead and tell us what it is 
like — where all this that aches so in life, heart, soul, con- 
science, whatever you call it, goes after that ghastly change. 
But they never do, and we go on blindly, and then all at 
once the world slips from under us, and we are — where t Or 
is it the end, and are we blankness and nothingness, as be- 
fore we were born ? That would be best I do not think I 
would fear that — much I " 

Vera kneels down beside her, and puts her arm around 
her, every trace of color leaving her face, her eyes dark and 
dilated with sudden terror. 

" Dora," she says, " Dora, what is this ? Are you in pain 1 
Does your heart hurt you ? Is it the spasms again ? " 

"Oh, no!" Dora answers, wearily, "nothing of that 
I feel well enough ; I never felt so well or happy in my life 
as I did to-night I am dead tired now, that is all. And 
mat picture troubles me like a bad dream. And your song 
—I cannot get that despairing refrain out of my ears. I 
wish I were a better woman, Vera, I wish I were as good, 
as wise as you " 

" As I ? " V*ra interrupts, almost with a cry "Oh, Dot 
Dot, as 1 1" 



A CRY IN TMR NIGHT. 345 

" Yoa never carry on with men as the rest of as do 
They have to respect you. You would not make a fool of 
yourself with Fred Howell as I did, come what might. You 
go to church every Sunday, rain or shine. You have pious 
little books, and you read them, and you believe in God and 
heaven, and all good things. Vera," she breaks out, and it 
35 a very cry of passionate pain, of a soul in utter darkness, 
u is there a God, and must I answer to Him for the life 1 
lead ; and when I die will He send me forever to—" 

But Vera's hand is over her mouth. Dora is certainly 
mad to-night — her husband's cruelty has turned her brain 1 

" Hush ! hush 1 hush 1 " she exclaims, in horror. " Oh, 
my Dot I my Dot ! " 

What shall she say to this blind, groping soul, lost in the 
chaos of unbelief ? What she does say is in a broken voice, 
full of pity and pathos ; Dora is too worn out to listen to 
much. But she speaks of the infinite goodness and love of 
Him whose tender mercies are over all His works. 

"If you would but pray," she says, imploringly, "it is ally 
it is everything, the ' key of the day and the lock of the 
night' Only this morning I was reading a book of Eastern 
travels, and the writer says a beautiful thing. He is speak- 
ing of the camels so heavily laden all the weary day, who 
kneel at its close to be unstrapped and unladen. And he 
says, we, like the camels, kneel down at night, and our bur- 
dens are lifted from us. If you would but kneel, Dot, and 
believe and pray, our loving Father, who hears the cry of 
every hopeless heart before it is spoken, would help you to 
bear it all." 

Dora does not answer — she lies back with closed eyes, 
whiter spent, mute. Vera rises and resumes her work ; in a 
few minutes an embroidered night-dress has replaced the 
rainbow costume and jewels, and Mrs. Fgnshawe lies down 
on her white bed with a long, tired sigh. 

" It is good to rest," she says ; " I hope I may sleep untfl 

IS* 



546 A CRY IN THE MIGMT. 

sunset to-morrow. See that I am not disturbed, wOl yea i 
I want to deep — to sleep — to sleep." 

The words trail off heavily — the last these pale lips wOl 
ever utter — and then, with closed eyes, she lies quite stiD 
among the pillows. Vera hastily replaces the jewels in then 
caskets, and arranges them on the table near the bed, flings 
the ball costume over a chair, turns down the gas to a tiny 
point, kisses her sister gently, locks the door on the inside, 
and leaves the bedroom. She goes by way of tbs dressing- 
room adjoining, the door of which she also locks, and takes 
the key. Fdlician may enter in the morning, according to 
custom, with her lady's matutinal chocolate, and Dora's sleep 
must not be disturbed. 

In her own room, she throws open the window, folds a 
wrap about her, and sits down, glad to be alone. She feels 
no desire for sleep ; her mind is abnormally wakeful and 
active. How dark it is 1 and how heavily it rains 1 The 
scent of wet grasses and dripping trees ascends; there is 
not a ray of light in the black sky ; the whole world seems 
blotted out in darkness and wet, and she the only living 
thing left. 

Is Dora asleep, she wonders — poor, poor Dora 1 Thank 
Heaven, it is not yet too late 1 thank Heaven, there is yet 
time for faith and repentance, and the beginning of a better, 
less worldly life 1 It has been a great and silent trouble to Vera 
during the past six years, the cynical, scoffing unbelief, of het 
sister, so hateful in a man, so utterly revolting in a woman. 
But it is not too late, it is never too late for penitence and 
amendment this side of eternity. Then her thoughts shift. 
the face of Richard Ffrench rises before her in the gloom, so 
full of silent, sad reproach. She lovss him, and she has sent 
him from her— oh, folly beyond belief! and yet so thorough- 
ly the folly of a womar . " I liked that Vera — I love this 1 " 
— the bound her heart gives as she recalls the words 1 They 
are true, or he would not speak them. No sense of loyaltf 



A CMY IV THE BtGWT. 347 

to her would make him tell her a thing that ii *alse. He 
is true as truth, true as steel, good, brave, a noble man. And 
she has sent him away 1 — the thought stings her with keenest 
pain and regret. Oh, thSs pride that exacts such a price ! 
Is it too late to retract ? He is going back to Cuba, to hii 
death it may be ; no man can carry a charmed life forever, 
and he will never know she loves him. No i a sudden, glad 
resolution nils her, for her, no more than for Dot, is repen- 
tance too late. He cannot leave St. Ann's before seven to* 
morrow — there is time, and to spare, yet She will write to 
him, and tell him all — the whole truth ; one of the men shall 
start with the letter at six o'clock, and give it to him at the 
station. And thin — a smile and blush steal over her face- 
he will return to her, and then 

She leaves the window, turns up the gas, sits down, and, 
without waiting to think, commences to write. The words 
iow faster than she can set them down — not very loving, 
perhaps ; she cannot show him all that is in her heart just 
f et, but good wifely words, that will surely bring him. It is 
not long ; little will suffice ; she signs, and seals, and directs, 
rhen, as she sits looking at the familiar name, a thought 
strikes her ; it is the second time in her life she has written 
to Richard Ffrench. She recalls that other letter, and laughs, 
in the new hope and happiness of her heart Was there 
ever such another absurd epistle penned ? No wonder Dot 
was amused — poor Dot 1 who declared that in the annals of 
segmental literature, it would stand alone. She is well 
disposed to forgive Dot to-night for her share in her marriage. 
If she were still free to choose, he is the man of all men she 
would give herself to. Many men she has met, known, es- 
teemed, liked — loved not one except this man whose wife 
she is, and him she loves with her whole heart. 

Five strikes somewhere down stairs. She is not sleepy, 
but it is best to lie down ~ I rest So in a few moments 
sh$ is amid her pillows. very won, the deep, tranquil 






S4* d CJtT /Jf THE NIGBT 

sleep of first youth and perfect health falli upon her, and iht 
•lumbers quietly as a little child. 

What was that 1 She sits up in sudden terror in the dark- 
ness. Was it a cry — a cry for help ? She listens, her heart 
beating fast Dead silence reigns, deep darkness is every- 
where. Has she been dreaming, or was it the shriek of a 
night bird, the scream of a belated gull ? No second sound 
follows, and yet, how like a cry it was, a human cry, of fear, 
of pain 1 

She rises hastily; she must make sure; perhaps Dot- 
she dare not finish the sentence. She throws on a dressing 
gown, and hurries to Dora's room. A dim light burns in the 
corridor ; she inserts the key softly in the dressing-room door, 
enters, approaches the bedroom, and looks in. All is peace. 
The gas burns, a tiny star of light ; on the bed Dora lies, 
faintly to be discerned, quite still, sleeping deeply. 

" Thank Heaven I " Vera breathes, " it was a dream or a 

night bird, after all" 

******* 

Left alone Dora Fanshawe drops asleep almost at once — 
the spent sleep of utter exhaustion. The loud beat of the 
rain on the windows does not break her rest, the heavy 
surging of the trees is unheard. She sleeps heavily, dream- 
lessly, and then, without sound or cause, suddenly awakes 
And yet there is a sound in the room, a sound faint, indeed, 
but terrible, the sound of a man stealthily opening the jewel- 
cases. She springs tip in bed, and a shriek, wild, piercing, 
long, rings through the house. 

He turns with an oath, and puts his hand over her mouth. 
But Dora is a plucky little woman, and struggles in his grasp 
like a tiger-cat 

" D you 1 " he says, between his clenched teeth, ( TO 

shoot you if you don't be still 1 " 

A crape mask covers his face. With one hand she tears 
k oC with the other she grasps the heavy whiskers he wears. 



A CRY MM TWM MIGHT. M9 

Tlieir eyes meet— -the light of the gas-jet falls full aputn him 
— the struggle ceases — for one awful instant she states up at 
him, he down on her. Then with a dull, inarticulate sound 
she falls back, still retaining her hold. He tears himself free, 
violently, and, without giving her a second glance, thrusts the 
last of the jewels into his pockets, unlocks the chambei 
door, and flies. He is out in the pitch darkness of the wild 
wet morning before Vera looks into her sister's room. 

And Dora lies still and sleeps on, but with wide open, 
glazing eyes, fixed in some strong horror. She lies motion- 
less, and the open eyes staring blankly at the ceiling fluttet 
not, nor close. She has her wish ; she will sleep, and on 
this earth that sleep will never be broken. The splendor 
and the glory of the world spread at her feet would fail to 
win one glance of gladness from those sightless eyes. The 
mighty problem is solved— of Time and Eternity — the soul 
that has fled in the darkness and silence of the night has 
looked upon the holy and awful face of God. 

The hours wear on ; inside the sleepers sleep, and quiet 
reigns ; outside the wind veers, and drives the storm-clouds 
before it ; a few stars palely usher in the dawn. Sounds of 
life begin in the house, servants still sleepy and tired drag 
themselves down stairs. Scarlet and crimson clouds push 
away with rosy hands the blackness, and presently the sun 
rises like the smile of God upon the wcrld. But Dora Fan- 
ihawe rises not, will rise no more until the resurrection lay, 



Sf» 




CHAPTER XIL 

Df THE DEAD HAND. 

| HE first gleam of that jubilant sunshine awakei 
Vsra, and she gets up. It is half-past six ; pro- 
found quiet reigns, no one is yet stirring. Hei 
letter is her first thought, and with it comes a second that 
did not present itself last night — none of the men are yet 
down, coachman, gardener, stable-boys, butler — how then is 
ihe to send it ? A third difficulty presents itself, these men* 
servants are all new — Fanshawe retainers — who know noth- 
ing of the Charlton dynasty, or of Captain Dick. The re- 
cult is her letter is a failure, her penitence too late, it can- 
not be sent. 

An intolerable sense of annoyance and disappointment 
fills her. She has hoped so much only for this. The fault 
is all her own, but it is doubtful if that knowledge ever made 
any failure the easier to bear. It is inevitable, however ; 
the letter cannot go. 

She has dressed hastily, and stands by the window looking 
out over the grounds, intense vexation in her face. No one 
is to be seen, none of the usual morning sounds are to be 
heard, although far upstairs doors and windows begin to be 
opened. While she stands and looks, a man suddenly ap- 
pears, emerging from the summer-house, at sight of whom 
she gives a great and sudden start For, extraordinary to 
relate, it fe Colonel Ffrench himself. At first she cannot 
believe her eyes, but they are far-sighted and seldom deceive 
ner. It is Colonel Ffrench himself, walking with the long! 
military stride she knows so well, carrying himself after nil 
usual resolute and erect fashion, his hat pulled well over his 



IN THE DEAD BAhZ. 351 

«ye*> going rapidly toward the gates. He does not one* 
look back — if he does he must see her — bat he does aot 
He has not gone then, after all, he will not catch the early 
train, she will be in time perhaps yet 

Sudden delight takes the place of amaze, to give way to 
amaze again. Why is he here? Where has he been all 
night ? Surely not yonder in the rain ? If he stayed in the 
summer-house he escaped the storm of course, but why has 
he stayed ? He neither fears a night walk nor a wetting. 
How cruel she was, how inhospitably cruel to let him go as 
she did, to turn him from his own house. For his right to 
Charlton is better than Dot's, in justice, if not in law, two 
feings by no means synonymous. How keen his pain and 
lisappointment must have been, how bitter his thoughts 
there in the darkness, and the loneliness, and the pelting 
storm, while they danced and feasted within. And he 
loves her ! How merciless she has been, how merciless ! 
and all the while the whole world is not half so much 
to her as he. Her eyes fill with slow, remorseful tears, a 
passion of tenderness and regret sweeps through her. She 
has thought Dot crazy last night, but never in her wildest 
moments has poor Dot been half so insane, half so inconsis-' 
tent as she. 

That reminds her — she must go to Dot. Colonel Ffrench 
cannot leave St Ann's now before five in the afternoon. A 
long day lies before her. Just at present her duty is to her 
sister, so she puts her own solicitude aside and hastens 
Dora's chamber. On the bed Dora lies motioL less, sleepi 
still. Closed shutters and drawn curtains shut out the s 
shine, the gas yet flickers feebly, and, to her surprise, V 
sees that the bedroom door is ajar. It was locked on 
inside when she quitted the room at half-past four this mo 
ing. She sees something else — the empty and rifled je 
cases. One lies on the floor, two others on the table, 
all empty and despoiled. And now, in great and sud 



35* I* THE DEAD BAHD. 

tenor, the looks again at die bed Dora it 
oh! what is this? The rigid face, die upturned, staring; 
sightless, glazed eyes, the fallen jaw, the ice-cold hands. Foi 
a moment, two, three, four, she stands paralyzed, stricken 
dumb ; then a shriek pierces the air, goes through the house, 
another and another, until in five seconds as it seems, the 
room is filled with frightened, half-dressed people. Guestt 
and servants flock in terror. 

" Oh 1 what is it 1 " is the cry on every side. What they 
tee is Mrs. Fanshawe lying dead on her bed, and her sister 
kneeling beside her, clasping her hands, frantic, beside her- 
self with fright and grief. 

" Dot, speak to me 1 Dot, look at me 1 Dot, my sister, it 
is Vera 1 Do you not hear ? Oh ! great Heaven 1 no, shr 
does not hear. She will never hear I She is dead 1 She is 
murdered 1 " 

She throws herself upon her, she gathers her in her arms, 
wild with the shock, the horror of her loss. " She is mur- 
dered, she is murdered ! " she cries again and again in that 
piercing voice, and at the dreadful word all recoil. 

" Murdered 1 " pale lips echo, and terrified eyes meet in 
dismay. One man approaches and touches Vera gently op 
the shoulder. 

" Miss Martinez, my dear Miss Martinez, be calm. Let 
m? see your sister ; I am a medical man, you know. She 
may not be dead, it may only be a fainting fit Do let me 
look at her; lay her down. My dear Miss Vera, listen 
to me.' 

She looks up at him — a look of agony that haunts him for 
many a day, a look of unutterable horror and fear. 

" She is dead, ' she says in a whisper, " she is dead. 
While we all slept she has been robbed and murdered 1 " 
The light leaves her eyes with the last word, her arms relai 
their hold, Dr. Vanderhoff catches her as she falls. 

" Thank Heaven I she has fainted. Here, take her away 



IN TOE DEAD MdtTZk 3SS 

Get oat of the room all of you ; let na tet if anything ia to 
ft* done." 

Somebody carries Vera away, one or two weeping women 
follow. Restoratives are sent for, but she lies for man) 
minutes as death-like as Dora herself, For Dora-— Dr. Van- 
derhoff stands high in his profession, but the whole college 
of surgeons would be unavailing here. His first glance has 
told him as much, but he is bound to do all he can. A few 
of the frightened guests remain in the room, the shutters are 
flung wide, the glorious golden sunlight floods the room, 
floods the dead face, the fixed, wide-open eyes; a grisly 
sight to see. 

"Oh! doctor, is h true? is she dead?" one ladyask% 
with a sob. 

" She is quite dead, madam, stone dead, and has been for 
hours. She is already cold. It is heart-disease/ 9 

He rises from his hopeless task, and tries to close the lids 
over those stony eyeballs that only a few hours ago, so aw* 
fully few, flashed with life and joy. 

* It was only a question of time," Dr. Vanderhoff says, 
quietly. He is her guest and old friend, but he is also a 
physician of many years' standing, and all the professional 
phlegm is in his face and tone. "I have known for tn« 
last three years that one day it would come to this. A 
shock might have done it at any moment. Poor littk 
woman 1 " 

He stands looking at her, a touch of pity mingling with 
the professional composure of his face. The eyes will not 
close, they still strain upward, and on the white dead face 
fa frozen a last look of unutterable fear. 

"What did Miss Martinez mean by murder ? " somebody 
asks. Dr. Vanderhoff shrugs his shoulders. 

"A woman's first natural thought in a case like thisL 
They were very much attached to each other, unusually at* 
tached. It will be a sad blow to her." 



354 tM THE DEAD BAND. 

* She spoke of robbery, too," says another , " and loea 
here — look at these empty jewel-caskets. Can it be— — % 

" And look at the awful expression of her face," exclaims 
a third ; " as if her last look in life had been one of dread- 
ful fright or pain. Perhaps robbery and — and murder ban 
been done after alL" 

44 Not murder," says Dr. Vanderhoffi incisively. "Mrs. 
Fanshawe has died of heart-disease. Robbery there may 
possibly have been — not murder." 

Strangely enough no one speaks of her husband, or seems 
to think of him in this appalling hour. The infelicity of the 
Fanshawes is well known, the notorious neglect of the hus- 
band has become an accepted fact Silence falls on all, and 
in that silence, Vera, with two or three ladies, re-enters the 
*oom. All make way; her face is white to deathliness, 
her eyes all wild and black. She comes forward as if she 
saw no one, and kneels beside the bed. So kneeling, with- 
out a word, she looks on the face of the dead. 

" My dear Miss Vera," says Dr. Vanderhoff. There if 
feeling in his voice : this is outside the profession. " My 

dear Miss Vera " and here he stops and taps his gold 

eye-glass against his palm. It is not so easy to find words 
for the shock of a sorrow like this. 

She does not weep, she is strangely, stonily still ; she 
looks up at him, and her voice when she speaks, though 
hoarse and hurried, has no trace of hysterics or tears. 

"She has been robbed," she says, and points to the 
empty jewel-cases, " and murdered while we all slept" 

" Not murdered, my dear child ; do not think anything so 
dreadful. Your poor sister has gone, as I knew she one day 
must go, of heart-disease. It is a shock, but it should not 
be a surprise. She was liable at any time. Her death was 
instantaneous and free from pain." 

" She has been murdered," Vera repeats; " it is the same 
thing. She was robbed, and the terror of using she rob©* 



tilled kat. If he had shot bar he eoald not 1mm slain 
more surely.' 

u My dear young lady * * 

" There are the empty cases," the cries, passionately 3 
" they were filled this morning when I left her. They were 
worth over ten thousand dollars. And look here, look at 
this/' 

For the first time she sees the crape, crushed into a ball 
in her sister's hand. Gently she disengages it, quivering 
through all her frame as she feels the icy touch. She holds 
it up. 

" Look 1 " she says, in a stifled voice. He takes it in si- 
lence. It seems a clear case, there has been a struggle, 
and she has torn this from the face of the robber. It is a 
soask, with holes for the eyes and mouth. 

"The other hand is closed too," says Dr. Vanderhoft; 
in a subdued tone. 

She takes it. " Oh 1 my little Dot ! my little Dot ! " tfce 
says, and breaks down. It is but for an instant; she lifts 
her pallid face and slowly and with difficulty separates the 
stiffened fingers. " Oh 1 look 1 look ! " she cries out, " see 
this. Oh 1 my little love 1 my little love 1 " 

It is a sight that seeds a thrill through every heart ; a 
sight that shows while they sl\ slept poor little Dora has 
fought for her life. And yet it is cnly a little tuft of hair, 
torn from the head or beard of the burglai. 

" Let me secure this," says Dr. Vanderhofi ; ** it mav be 
necessary. 1 ' 

Vera shrinks back and covers her face, trembling all over. 
Oh I Dora 1 Dora ) Oh 1 the agony that must ha^e been 
hers in that ghastly struggle, face to face with death — that 
dark death she feared so much. And she, the sister whn 
loved her, slept through it all. There flashes upon her the 
memory of that cry in the night. Dora's death-cry. Whf!* 
iK* •tood in yonder doorway, whils she fancied sue sleoi 



iff m wwm dead Bdam. 



Dor* was already dying or dead. She breska oat bito wfld 

weeping, frantic hysterical weeping, all unlike Verm. Oh I 
my sister I my sister I my sister I " is her cry. 

And meantime Dr. Vanderhoff has carefully gathered rp 
every hair from the palm of the dead hand. The small, pal* 
fingers have clenched over them, as if even in death unwO- 
ing to let them go. He pats up his glass to inspect his 
prize ; the last doubt is removed. Violence has been here, 
robbery has been done, the shock has caused death. The 
others crowd about him and look with intense, morbid in* 
terest The hair is short, some of the longest perhaps three 
inches, and pale-brown or chestnut in color. 

"Torn from a man's beard," says the doctor, "not his 
head. There is a marked difference in the texture. Poor 
little woman 1 " 

And now the shock is over, and people come back to die 
inevitable "What next?" What next is to inform the 
authorities ; notify the coroner. There must be an inquest, 
he supposes. Dr. Vanderhoff suggests, with a deprecating 
shrug and pitying look at Vera. And they must get on the 
track of the burglar ; he is half way back to New York by this 
time, no doubt. It seems clear enough to his mind. It is 
not the work of a local thief; some tramp has given inform* 
tion to the skilled city fraternity of the jimmy and skeleton* 
key, and one or more have lain in waiting for these valuable 
jewels. How rash not to have nad the constabulary on guard, 
or so much as a safe in the house. But it is so like a lady. 

" Poor little thing," says the physician, for the third time. 
" I never saw her look so pretty, or seem in such high 
spirits as last night Those unlucky diamonds, too; I 
remember being struck by them at the time. That fellow, her 
husband," says Dr. Vanderhoff lowering his tone, "what 
about him ? Where is he ? He ought to be apprised, T sup* 
pose. Not that it matters much; a worthless vagabond Wha 
knows his address ? " 



m TME MMAD MUM*. %V 

No one knowi it. Miss Martinez very Vktkf may, bat no 
ones feels like asking her just at present 

" In his absence, as the oldest man, a friend of the fiun* 
fly, and poor Mrs. Fanshawe's medical adviser, I shall take 
it upon myself to direct proceedings for the present Here, 
my man, do you go to the village and send Mrs. Fanshawe's 
attorney here ; lose no time. Lodge information of this sad 
affair with your leading local magistrate. For you, my dear 
ladies, I think it will be best to clear the room ; the women- 
servants will wish to prepare our poor friend, etcetera. And 
do take away this poor child, if you can." 

But they cannot ; no one can remove Vera, and they go 
and leave her. It is nine o'clock now, and the guests dis- 
perse to talk over, in excited whispers, what has been done 
and what is to be done. The first thing is, that by the trail, 
to-morrow they must depart. Charlton Place from a house 
of feasting has become a house of death and mourning ; they 
must leave it. They can do nothing here, and poor Miss 
Martinez will prefer to be alone. Ah 1 what a blow for her. 
Cut no doubt Mrs. Fanshawe has made her will and pro- 
vided for her well, left her everything very likely, and cut 
off her profligate husband with a shilling. It will serve him 
tight, the wretch, cry the ladies who were hardest on Dora 
last night. He is in New York, no doubt, the close friend 
still of that horrid Lalage. 



The day passes, many people come and go ; the news 
rings through the town like wild-fire. St. Ann's is a place 
where literally nothing happens. Since trade, and whalers, 
tod Portuguese seamen became things of the past, nc violent 
dftath has ever been heard of within a radius of thirty 
miles. People grow up, marry, and live happily forever 
aftet A burial is a rarity, a wedding a marvel, a birth a 
a thing to be discussed, in all its bearings, for a fortnight A 



30 

murder h unprecedented All the circumstance* tend ft 
lend romantic interest and gloom to this tragedy. The bril- 
liant birthday ball, the awful ending. 

The authorities cannot believe their responsible ears ; the 
coroner — people have almost forgotten that potentate exists 
—stands aghast He awakes to find sudden and unwelcome 
greatness thrust upon him. 

People come with stealthy steps into the darkened room 
where the pale little lady of Charlton lies, and look with 
bated breath into the rigid (ace and staring eyen that no hand 
is strong enough to close, at the silent black figure sitting 
motionless beside it, and steal unconsciously away. Vera 
sees none of them, she sits there in stupor, her hands locked 
together, her eyes on the face of her sister. She " cannct 
wake her dead ; " it is not her Dot that lies here, it is some 
white, mute thing, some pale, dreadful image, that fascinates 
her, and that she cannot leave. Absolutely her mind seems 
to wander sometimes. It is not Dot, this ghastly face and 
rigid form. Dora dead 1 — Dora, who was the gayest where 
all was gay only a few hours ago ; whom she undressed an<? 
kissed good-night such a little time back; whose sleepy 
words still sound in her ears. Why, no, it is not Dot 1 Do* 
dead ! How strangely that sounds 1 She puts her hand tc 
her head in a dazed sort of way ; her thoughts seem all dis 
connected, everything about her unreal. People touch her, 
speak to her ; she never knows who, nor what they say. 
Some one — Harriet — presses her to eat, and she looks at 
her in dismay. Eat I and this white, solemn wonder lying 
here ! — this face of stone that they say is Dot 1 Sometimes 
she turns two dull, half-sightless eyes across to where the 
gloomy picture hangs, and at last a resentful feeling — the 
first feeling of any kind she is conscious of in her numbness 
—rises within her. // has had something to do with this 
dreadful thing that has fallen upon her. " Take it away t " 
she says angrily , to Harriet wno hovers about her constantry. 



IN TOM, DEAD MAND. 3» 



f hate it I— to did she ! It frightened her last night Take 
t away ! " 

Without a word, Harriet removes the picture, and the 
dreary gaze goes back to the dead. 

" If she would only cry a spell I " said Harriet, crying 
copiously herself " 'twould do her a sight d good. It's a 
drefiul thing to see her a-settin' like that I declare it skeeri 
me, and I ain't of the easy skeert kind nuther." 

Early in the afternoon a visitor comes, whom Harriet re» 
ceives with distinction. After a moment's whispered collo- 
quy, she goes up to the dark room with a glimmer of new 
hope. " If any one can perk her up, 'twill be him. She 
allers set a sight o' store by Captain Dick," she thinks. 

She bends above her with wonderful gentleness for grim 
old Harriet. 

" Miss Vera, honey, here's Captain Dick, your own Cap 
tain Dick, deary, and he wants to see you, Won't you com* 
down to him just a minute ? " 

Vera looks up, with a certain angry impatience that is 
singularly unlike her. Even this name is powerless to move 
her. 

" I want to stay here. Do let me alone. So many peo- 
ple come 1 I wish they would not Why can't I be quiet f 
Go away, Harriet 1 " 

" But, lovey, Captain Dick " 

"Oh! what does he want? I thought he was gone. I 
can't go. I don't want to talk. Do leave me alone— do- 
do!" 

It is of no use ; nothing can arouse her, and Harriet goes. 
Colonei Ffrench listens, profound trouble and anxiety on hii 
lace. 

" Poor child ! " he says. " No wonder she is stunned. I 
•hall remain, Harriet, until the end. Do what you can foi 
her — poor child, poor child 1 " 

Night icloaet over the gloomy house, wears away, and a see- 



jfio iif ram dead jtajhx 

end morning dawns. There is little change in Vera. Tbey 
cannot force her away, bat she has fallen heavily and exhaust' 
edly asleep at her post, and Dr. Vanderhoff lifts her and lays 
her on her bed* The guests go, glad to be gone. An officer 
or two are down from the city, and search has begun for the 
burglar. As yet little trace has been found. In the soft 
gravel and clay footpiints have been discovered, but so 
many have come and gone that that amounts to little. A 
man has spent the night in the summer-house, for the stable- 
boy, looking out about seven o'clock, from his attic window, 
mw him hastily depart But burglars do not, as a rule, for 
(ear of a wet jacket, take shelter in the grounds of the placs 
they have robbed Still a note is made of it, the summer 
house searched, and nothing found. The inquest is to be 
on the third day ; something will come to light then. The 
robbery and the death, alone, are talked of everywhere. Who 
is to inherit Mrs. Fanshawe's fortune ? 

And then it leaks out — no one knows how — that die latt 
Mr. Charlton's step-son, Richard Ffrench, is sole heir. Some 
one has seen him, and tells some one else. Richard Ffrench 
is here, and for the first time in six years. What is he doing 
liere ? No one knows. Is he — was he— a friend of Mrs. 
ftnshawe? Not likely, or he would have been at the 
house. But he was at the house, late last night, though he 
was not at the balL How this last fact gets wind it is im- 
possible to say — you might as well hope to wring secrets 
kom the tomb, as from Harriet, but get wind it does. The 
very birds of the air seem to carry news to-day. He was at 
the house last night in secret and uninvited. He and Mrs 
Fanshawe were not good friends. He is the heir — sole heir, 
tht only one to profit by her death / Men look at one 
another. Men stare at him in the street as he passes by. 
Silence falls on talkative groups when he appears. Suspicion 
— that most awful thing that can look out of human eyes— 
snspkioD took* at him cut of all the eyes he meets. la 



m TMM MMJLB MdlHk jOt 

wlut manner the truth comes to him it it difficult to tell, but 
it does come in a slow, creeping amase and shock, that tuna 
him cold. It is not the shock of physical fear — that he has 
never known ; it is something quite different and unspeaka- 
bly more terrible. It takes to itself wiigs, the breeze carries 
it, the birds sing it — it penetrates every corner of St Ann's. 
And on the evening of this second day it reaches CharltOL 
Place and is breathed in the ear of Harriet Hart Who the 
audacious tale-bearer may be is unknown — Harriet's glance 
of wrathful scorn must have annihilated him forever. But 
she sets her thin lips and marches straight to Vera. Sks 
must know this. 

The dark, hopeless eyes look up at her pathetically. If 
only for one hour they would leave her alone 1 

" Miss Vera," says Harriet, resolutely, " you must rouse 
yourself and listen to me. It is time. Captain Ffrench is 
here, and " 

14 Again!" Vera breaks in with a tired sort of cry. "Oh! 
I cannot see him 1 Why do you torment me ? I thought 
he had gone." 

" He is not gone — he is not going — he will not be let go, 
mebbe, if he wants to. Are you so took up with the dead 
that you have nofeelin' left for the livhV ? I tell you a hor- 
id thing is goin' about, and you've got to hear it if you 
tAould take on ever so. The man's your husband when 
alhs said and done, and a live husband is more'n a dead sis* 
ter, I reckon, any day. Captain Dick is here, and — look at 
me, Miss Vera — listen to me- the folks is a savin' as hi is 
the thief that broke in and stole Miss Fanshawe's dia 
mondsl ' 




CHAPTER XIII. 

IV THE DA*Jl HOUR. 

|T is the third day, and the iaqueit ii about to begin. 
Very many people are present — it is rumored thai 
Miss Martinez is to testify, and that the suspected 
man will be there. It ia rumored, too, that Colonel Ffrencb 
and Miss Martinez are more to each other than the world 
knows, and that it was to see her he visited Charlton on the 
night of the robbery. The interest in the tragedy deepens 
with every hour. The military rank and romantic history of 
the dashing soldier of fortune intensify it ; the rumor that he 
is positively the husband, of Miss Martinez, and has been so 
(br many years, adds a zest beyond belief! It will be curious 
to see them together — to hear her testify against him, it ma? 
be. She is hardly likely to spue a husband she will not livt 
with, where a sister, beloved beyond the love of sisters, if 
concerned. Mr. Dane Fanshawe has not yet been notified 
of his bereavement. Vera does not know his address, it ap- 
pears, and fires up with sudden passion at the bare mentior 
of his name. 

" It is his fault 1 " she cries out, vehemently — " it is his 
doing : If he had been here, it would never have happened 1 " 
More than this she declines to say. "I hate himl" she 
breaks forth, when the question is pressed — " I never want 
to see his face or hear his name ! I would not tell you if I 
knew 1 " 

So Mr. Fanshawe is still absent, and people are a tittle 
shocked at Miss Martinez's vehemence. It is all the more 
striking as her general manner is all that there is of high-hred 
repose. Still she is perkaps excusable, poor thing ; she has 



m na DAJir mourn. 963 

lott trvayihing, and, apart from that, she really loved her 
sister very dear]/. They stood quite alone in the world, and 
pooi Mrs. Fanshawe has been as a mother to her. What a 
singular will that of old Mr, Charlton is 1 Still, considering 
how infatuated he was about Dora, and how very fond of 
Dick in those days, natural. And Dick Ffrench inherit! 
everything 1 Humph 1 say the gossips, and look at hint cu- 
riously — it is hoped he will clearly account for every hour of 
that fatal night, from the time he parted with Miss Martiaes 
until after the discovery in Mrs, Fanshawe' s room. 

The jury and coroner take their places, looking uncom- 
fortable ; they are rustic gentlemen, and the coroner has 
known and liked Dick Ffrench ever since he first came to 
Charlton. The officers of the detective force, and the local 
constabulary, are also present. The crowd is great, it fills 
the long ballroom where the inquest is held. Every cne stares 
about curiously. It was in this room she danced away the 
last hours of her life. The serious-minded shudder ; that was 
a dance of death indeed, a dreadful way to go down to the 
gra?e — one's last act a crazy cotillion. But up stairs, iw hei 
costly, silver-mounted, satin-lined casket, Dora lies, with 
face of marble and frozen eyes, and hears nor heeds not 
And into the long, thronged apartment Miss Martinez comes 
presently and there is a flutter, a hush-h-h 1 from all, and 
every eye turns upon her 

How white she is in her long, straight, black dress, with its 
great folds of crape ; how tall, how solemn. She has grown 
thin, and her big black eyes look unnaturally large and weird. 

She goes straight to where Colonel Ffrench sits, and holds 
out her hand. 

" I am glad you are here,' 9 she says, steadily. a It is kind 
of you to stay." 

A dark flush mounts to his forehead — he rises and takes 
in both his, the hand she extends, and does no* quickly 1*4 
hgo 



364 Of TWR DAM* HOUM. 

Greedily die crowd strain eyes to fee, and eara to listem* 
They are friends then, these two, after all Bat Richard 
Ffrench understands — she has heard the truth, the suspicicoi 
afloat have reached her. This is her vindication. It is the 
lame true, brave instinct that sent her to his side that morn- 
ing at Shaddeck Light, with her head thrown back, her ey?s 
flashing, and her defiant " Captain Dick is not to blame t >v 

God bless her I she is the same dear little Vera after 
all! 

Miss Martinez is giving her testimony with wonderful clear 
ness and conciseness, considering the effort it cost her to be 
here at alL Harriet's words have roused her, thoroughly 
and effectually ; she will relapse into stupor no more. To 
suspect Richard Ffrench of so ignoble a crime ! of so dastardly 
a deed 1 Richard Ffrench, brave as his namesake of old, 
without fear and without reproach, to steal in, and rob a 
woman 1 How dare they ! Her splendid eyes blaze on 
the*; people — if looks were lightning it would go ill with 
some of the St Ann's gossips. She tells her story without 
breaking down once, and is allowed to depart On her way 
out she turns to Colonel Ffrench again. 

" Come back this evening," she says, " it is so lonely ; " 
her lip quivers. u Come and share my watch — my last" 

" I will come," he answers, more moved than he dare 
show; and he clasps her hand once more a moment, and seef 
her go. 

Dr. Vanderhoff gives his testimony — he is positive no 
violence has been used Mrs. Fanshawe died of heart- 
disease. The shock of seeing the robber, and struggling 
with him, as she evidently did, was the immediate cause, 
but by any act of violence on his part — no. The hair and 
crape are produced; they go to prove that the thief was 
masked, and wore whiskers, eitner real or false. All eyes 
at this point, turn instinctively to the Cuban colonel, sitting 
with folded arms, and coldly resolute face* He wears no 



IN THE DAM* WO&M. j6| 

whisketv or beard, a heavy, dark mustache alone shade* hii 
mouth y but does not conceal its fine, determined contour, 
nor the shapely, well-rounded, obstinate chin. A man 
whose reputation is not lightly to be trifled with ; a man not 
to be too quickly or easily accused ; a man who knows how 
to defend his own honor and good name, or that mouth and 
chin, those dark, determined eyes, belie him. 

Dr. VanderhofF goes, and the servants are examined. 
Have any of them seen tramps or suspicious characters lurk- 
ing about lately ? And then it comes out that the stable-boy 
has. Johnny, the stable-boy, appears, looking frightened 
and irresolute. He stammers a great deal, and what he has 
to say is not easily got at. Got at, however, it amounts to 
this — at seven on the morning of the death, he saw a man 
coming out of the summer-house in the grounds, and hurry- 
ing away toward the gates. Did he know the man ? No, 
Johnny does not know him, but-— more frightened than be- 
fore — he breaks off, and looks askance at Colonel Ffrench. 

" 'Twas him /" Johnny says, with a burst 

Then there is a thrill, and a hard-drawn breath, and a sen 
sation through the crowd, if you like 1 And in the midst of 
it Colonel Ffrench rises, as calm as he is wont to be when 
he leads his men to the hottest of the fight, but perhaps a 
trifle more pale. 

" The lad is quite right," he says, " it was I he saw. I 
left the summer-house about seven on that morning." 

"You are not obliged, Colonel French——" begins the 
coroner, nervously, but Colonel Ffrench goes quietly on : 

"I had been here about ten the preceding night Pri- 
vate business, concerning only myself and Miss Martinez, 
brought me. It was not necessary to disturb Mrs. Fan- 
shawe by my presence, so I did not see her. I remained 
conversing with Miss Martinez over half an hour. Then 1 
left. It was raining heavily, and blowing a gale. I did not 
care about facing th? two-miie walk to St Ann's in the teeth 



J66 m THE DARK HOUR. 

of the stotm, and knowing the place well, I went to tht 
summer-house. I sat there for some hours, but the storm 
did not abate, and finally I fell asleep. I left as soon as 1 
woke, about seven, and so missed the first train to New 
York, which I had intended to take." 

There is silence— extremely awkward silence. Dr. Hun* 
ter, the coroner, has never felt so embarrassed and non- 
plussed in his life. It has an ugly look — a devilishly ugly look, 
he thinks, for the colonel. What the deuse made him stay in the 
summer-house ? Confound the summer-house, and confound 
Johnny's prying eyes. He gives that youngster a savage 
glance that makes him quake. There is not much more to 
be done. The whole thing is hasty and informal, the jury 
feel as uncomfortable as the coroner, and about noon a ver- 
dict in " accordance with the facts " is returned. Mrs. Faa- 
shawe has died of heart-disease, induced by the shock of the 
robbery committed by some person or persons unknown. 

The detectives down from New York look at one another 
and grin. Men exchange looks, and shrug their shoulders, 
coroner and jury look unspeakably relieved, and depart with 
stolid faces. They have done their duty — now let the de- 
tectives find out the robber if they can. The throng dis- 
perses, and Colonel Ffrench follows, amazingly erect and 
upright, cool and unflinching for a suspected criminal 

That evening brings Mr. Dane Fanshawe, pale, breathless, 
horror-stricken. Vera looks at him in honest surprise, as 
she sees the grief, the real regret in his face, and softens to 
him ever so little. 

After all, perhaps, some men cannot help being half fool 
half knave — it seems born with them — and he has reason to 
be sorry, for he has killed the goose that laid the golden 
egg's. Vera cannot refrain from telling him so. 

" All that will not bring her back," she says, with a touch 
of scorn ; " if you had been here, it need never have hap 
pened. I say it is your doing as much as the burglars' J " 



m TJU BARK W0U9L &f 

"But, good Heaven 1 Yen, how could I tell?' He if 
10 pale, to piteous, so tremulous, as he says it, that she re- 
lents. " I did not think — how could say one ever think it 
would come to this ? " 

" She showed me your telegram 1 " Vera exclaims, her 
eyes flashing. "From first to last, Dane Fanshawe, you 
have acted toward her like a brute, and— oh, my poor little 
Dot, she was fond of you / " 

He lays his face on this mantel with a groan. He is 
actually crying, the weak, poor creature ; but it is more 
than Vest, than any one would have given him credit 
for. 

" I would give my life, so hear me Heaven," he says, " to 
bring her back 1 " 

Perhaps at the moment he means it. She sighs drearily 
and lays her tired head down upon the casket. 

" Bring her back t " she repeats, with a sob ; " bring her 
back 1 Oh, Dora 1 my dear, my dear I " 

She has not wept much, but some subtle chord is touchec 
every now and then, and a rain of tears follows. She cries 
now silently and long. " My dear little love I my dear litt^s 
love 1 " she repeats over and over. Never once has one 
unkind or harsh word fallen from Dora's lips to her. Dora 
has loved her, cared for her, made sacrifices for her, and in 
Dora's dying hour, in her desperate death struggle, she was 
aot there to save or help. 

Richard Ffrench comes, and she lifts two streaming syes 
far one moment in appeal to his face. u You are all I have, 
do not leave me 1 " that glance says, if he could but reac* it. 
He takes his place near her in silence, but a silence that is 
full of sympathy, and that soothes her. It is good to have 
him here, it is a comfort, a protection, something to cling to 
in her great and sudden shipwreck. 

The funeral is to be next day, and the concourse wfll 
be unprecedented. The whole country side means to ton? 



out in sombre Ibrcew Fnends come down fton the rily ns 
such funeral has ever taken place in St Ann's. Many pet 
tons pan in and oat in the room of death; Vera it then 
constantly, worn and wan to a degree^ Once, as she sits at 
her dreary and solitary post, a small, mmflisn-lookiiig man 
comes up to her, and makes an awkward bow. 

" Ask pardon, miss," he says, in an apologetic, guarded 
undertone. " I'm Daggit" 

Vera stares blankly. 

"Daggit, miss,* repeats the small man, in a whisper, "of 
die detective force — private. Employed by your sister- 
party lately deceased. Down here on my own hook, in this 
unpleasant business. Would you mind telling me, miss, who 
that nice-looking, lady-like young gentleman is ? " 

He points straight at Dane Fanshawe. 

" Him, miss, with the Wipe — ask pardon, the handkerehkf 
up to his lace. He's the husband, ain't he, miss ? " 

" Yes," she says, mechanically ; " it is Mr. Fanshawe." 

Mr. Daggit's light eyes seem to bore two holes through 
Mr. Fanshawe's anatomy on the spot 

"Thanky, miss. Yes, I knowed it was. Not on good 
terms, was they, miss — him and the deceased party ? Speak 
up, miss, if you please. . I've tackled this job on my own 
hook, and mean to see daylight." 

a No, not on good terms," answers Vera, still half bewil- 
dered as to his drift 

" Hard up, wasn't he, miss ? Running after a play-actot 
— ask pardon for naming her. They're expensive, that lot- 
uncommon! Deceased party — ask pardon, lady wouldn't 
pay his debts ? Hem-m ! " 

Mr. Daggit bores another hole through Mr. Fanshawe, and 
passes his hand musingly over his n/outh. 

" Was in Philadelphia at the time, wasn't he ? ' 

u In Philadelphia." 

" Only saw it is the tftrdd by chance— rum start Ivrt, m 



m TMR DARK JWCflt }•» 

a man i The coroner's got the hair ? " he says, to abruptly 
that Vera stares at him once more. 

u Yes," she says, wonderingly. 

The light eyes are on Mr. Dane Fanshawe's Dundreary 
whiskers, as if counting every separate hair. 

" Hum-m 1 " he muses again. " And that tall gent, witl 
the broad shoulders, and his head up, is he heir ? — him aa 
they — ask pardon, miss — him as they suspect ?" 

" I don't know what you mean," Vera says, shrinking firm* 
him in sudden terror, " I don't know who you are." 

"Ask pardon, miss, for troubling you. Won't ask any 
more questions. I'm Daggit, miss, as your sister employed 
to look up that precious husband of hers, and that singing 
hussy — ask pardon. And I have looked him up, and I mean 
to keep on looking him up, and see daylight if I'm shot foi 
It!" 

That is the last of Mr. Daggit. Vera sees him no more, 
and forgets him in a moment For the metallic case incloses 
the rosewood casket— -she is taking her last look at the dead 
face, her last kiss of the dead lips, the last farewell of the 
sister she loves. This side of eternity they will meet no 
more. 

" Oh, my love I my love I " she cries out wildly, struck 
with sudden horror and panic. Some one comes at that 
frightened, helpless cry, and puts his arms about her before 
them all, and holds her. 

"Vera, my own love," says a voice she knows welL 
* Vera, my dear, my dear 1 " And she clings to him and 
hides her face on his shoulder, quivering all over, while the 
case is screwed down, and the dead woman taken away. In 
these sublimated moments we forget ourselves and the world 
outside of us, but never for long. He lets her go, consigning 
her to the care of Harriet, who looks on, tearful but approv- 
ing and goes with the rest And Mrs. Grundy does not say 
■such — considering she has known him so long, and b*et 



ijQ m m DAMT WOOL 

always attached to him, and the occasion and everything. 
And he is a splendid fellow I the ladies declare in an irrele- 
vant burst On the whole, some of them would not mind it 
themselves. 

They lay Theodora Lightwood Fanshawe in the Charlton 
vault, where John and Robert Charlton already lie, and go 
and leave her. She is dead and buried. The interest 
centres in Colonel Ffrench now. Things look badly for 
him — very badly. Murmurs are rising, swelling, growing 
louder. He is the heir, the only one to benefit by her death, 
he was there that night, no one knows why ; he spent it in 
the grounds, by his own showing. He and Mrs. Fanshawe 
were not good friends — it looks badly. If he was a poor mac 
he would not be let off scot-free in this way ; he would not 
be at large with a cloud of robbery and sudden death upoa 
him. The rumor grows and grows, louder and more threat- 
ening, and reaches Charlton. It reaches Harriet, and Har 
riet carries it to Vera. The end will be that Colonel Ffrench, 
before a week, will lie in prison. 

Two days have passed since the funeral ; it is the after- 
noon of the third. Colonel Ffrench sits in his room alone, 
at the St Ann's HoteL No public demonstration has yet 
been made, but no one sees the gathering storm more 
clearly than he. He is strongly suspected, he cannot clear 
himself; before another day a warrant may be out for his 
arrest ; he may be lodged in the town jail. The first shock 
is over, and he has braced himself to face his fate, to meet 
the blow, What must be, must be — he is a fatalist, more or 
less — if it is written, it is written. Of course, he will do 
what he can, but the prospect looks gloomy. He must resigB 
his commission, inform his friends, put his affairs in order 
leave Charlton Place in the care of the lawyers and of Vera, 
and fight for what is dearer to him than life — his honor. 
Will Vera better* him guilty ? That thought is die hardest 
to bear of a£ 



IN THE DARK HOUR. %f\ 

It is a gusty, overcast evening, almost the last of tbt 
month* A fire burns in the grate, the last yellow glimmer 
of the frosty fall sunshine steals in and lights his writing-table. 
He is busily writing letters, making the most of the dying 
daylight, when there is a tap at the door. 

" Come in," he says, without looking up. 

Some one comes in, and stands silent, some of the hotel 
people, of course. 

" What is it ? " he asks, without turning round. 

There is a rustle of woman's garments. He turns quickly 
a long, black, vailed figure stands before him — a ghost in 
crape and bombasine. But despite the heavy crape vail he 
knows her. 

"Vera ! " he says, and rises in vast amaze. 

She throws back her vail and lays hold of the table as if 
she needed support. She is paler than he has ever seen hex 
—pale to the lips — and her eyes shrink and fall before his. 

" Sit down," he says, and places a chair ; " how ill you 
look 1 You are not nt to stand." 

She stands, however, and makes a motion to speak. She 
is greatly, strongly agitated, that he can see. Once, twice, 
she essays before the words will come. 

" I have heard — that you are — suspected of— cf what has 
been done. I have come to say that — that I am sorry." 

It is with the utmost difficulty she says this much. Some 
inward feeling moves her profoundly. But his whole face 
lights. 

" Thank Heaven 1 " he says ; " it is like you. You do 
not believe it — you will not believe it ? say that." 

" I do not — I will not — I never can." 

" Thank Heaven 1 " he says, deeply moved ; " it is like you 
— it is like you 1 I do not care half so much now. I am inno- 
cent, Vera, need J say it ? When I left you I went straight to 
the summer-house —I was nearer you there than elsewhere. 
ft was for the last lime, and I stayed. Believe me guiltless, 



IM THE DARK MOUtL 

and h wOl matter little who believes me guilty. Men have 
fuffered unjustly before— I can bear it as well as they/' 

She makes a second effort, greater than the first He 
wonders what it is she is going to say. 

"I want to tell yon — I have come to tell you— that 

if " a pause, " that if the announcement of our marriage 

will help you, I will announce it I — I will stay with you— 
I will be your wife." 

The last word is a positive gasp. No words can tell the 
effort it costs her to say this. She turns from him as she 
does say it, and walks suddenly to one of the windows. It is 
not alone the offer itself, hard as it is to make — it is the con- 
struction he may put upon if. As the sister of the rich Mrs. 
Fanshawe, only a week ago she rejected with scorn and 
pride the offer of being his wife. As the impoverished sis- 
ter of the dead Mrs. Fanshawe she comes to him — the heir 
— and renews the offer herself How hard she has found it 
to come — to say this — only Vera's proud and sensitive heart 
can ever know. Let him misunderstand, if he will — it is all 
a misunderstanding from first to last. She will make it if 
she dies in the effort to say the words. But he does not 
misunderstand, he is unutterably touched — moved to the 
very depths of his soul. 

"What shall I say?" he answers, brokenly. " I cannot 
thank you, I have no words. It is like you — I say that 
4gain — to come to me in the darkest hour of my life, and 
offer me the sacrifice of yours. But I cannot accept i\ 
The name I give you must be a clean one, the hand I 
oner free from all suspicion of crime. I would, indeed, 
be a dastard if I accepted your heroism to help myself! I 
would not accept it if it could help me — but it cannot 
Nothing now but the discovery of the real criminal caa 
do that For all the world I would not have it knowa 
that you are my wife now — the wife of a suspected thiet 
No, Vera, I iove you with all my heart— a hundred-foil 



in the daxjc irotrn. 373 

better in this lour than ever before. And for that vary 
love's sake I say no If the day ever comes when I stand 
clear and free, I will go to you then, an d " 

But she turns from the window as hastily as she has turned 
to it, and pulls her vail once more over her face. 

" Say no more 1 " she exclaims ; " let me go 1 It is so 

warm here — I am faint " The words die away, but she 

rallies in a moment, and pushes aside the hand he holds out. 
"lam better — let me go I " 

Something in her strained, unnatural tone checks the 
words he would speak. He goes down with her to the door, 
where Johnny and the phaeton wait He helps her in, but 
she seems to shrink from his touch. 

* Good-by," she says. " Drive fast, Johnny — it is nearly 
dark." 

"Not good-by," he answers, cheerily; "good-night I 
will see you early to-morrow. I have much to say." 

" Drive fast, Johnny," is her sole reply. 

She shivers, and draws her wrap closer about her. How 
dark it grows, how windy it is, how deathly chill I 

He stands in the doorway until she is out of sight, then 
slowly and thoughtfully returns to his work with a new, glad 
hope stirring within him that all his gloomy prospects cannot 
darken. And Vera is driven rapidly home through the gusty 
gloaming, and ascends to her room. How still the house is, 
how empty, how lonely 1 How empty is the whole world I 
Every one seems to have died with Dot — life has come to an 
end. It is like a tomb— like the vault where they have laid 
her, these echoing, unoccupied rooms. Is it a sin to wish 
•he were dead, too ? What in all the weary world is there 
left to live for ? She is tired out, her head aches— or is it 
her heart ? — she feels numb and stricken, lost, forsaken, and 
full of pain. " Oh, me 1 oh, me I " she says, pitifully, and 
la > s her folded arms down on the table, and her face apor 
them, with a kmg, sobbing sigh. 



374 

The wind crief like a banshee about die games, the trees 
rattle stripped, bleak amis, the night falls cold and starlets. 
And still Vera lies there long after the last light has faded* 
her head on her arms, as if she never cared to lift H again. 



CHAPTER XIV. 




is not quite ten the following morning when Colo- 
nel Ffrench presents himself at Charlton. Har- 
riet is the first person he encounters, and Harriet 
is struck by the bright eagerness of his face, the happy glad- 
ness of his smile. He is more like the Captain Dick of six 
years ago than she has seen him yet, but for some reason the 
change strikes her as out of place, and she frowns it down 
resentfully. 

" Where is Miss Vera ?" he asks. "Just tell her I am 
here, Harriet, will you, and particularly desire to see her." 

Harriet's brow lowers a little more, and she does not stir 
He looks at her in surprise. 

" Is she not up ? " he asks. 

Harriet does not answer. 

" Surely," he says, and comes suddenly nearer, " surely ihs 
is not ill?" 

Still Miss Hart maintains gloomy silence. In real alarm 
he speaks for the third time. 

" For Heaven's sake, Harriet, what is the matter ? Why 
don't you speak ? I wish to see my — my wife. Where is 
she?" 

Harness sealnd lips slowly and grimly unclose. Sb» may 



dismal reticence has effectually banished aB 
Hie buoyanfey from her visitor's look and manner. 

"Ay," she says, " where is she ? that is what I would like 
to know. Your wife ! You've c^ort to it at last, have you ? 
It? s time, too, after six years." 

" What do you mean ? " 

" I mean that Miss Vera's gona fw went away this 
morning at half-past six. Johnny drove her to the station, 
and where she's went, or what she's goin' to do, the Lord 
knows, I don't" 

He fails back a step— the surprise, the blow, literally hold 
him dumb. 

" She's left a'most all her things — her fine dresses, heaps 
and heaps of 'em upstairs, and took nothin' but her mourn- 
in'. All her jewels and that she sent to the bank yesterday 
One trunk's all she's fetched, and not the biggest nuther. 
You needn't ask me questions — I don't know nuthin'. She's 
gone up to York first — she's friends there, I reckon — more'n 
she's got here, from all I can see." 

Harriet shoots this Parthian shaft at the culprit, standing 
pale, and startled, and silent before her, with a baleful glance. 
It is not that she likes Captain Dick less, but that she likes 
Miss Vera more. 

" She's going to look for work when she gets settled in hex 
mind," she goes on; "that's all I know, if you was to stand 
starin' at me there till crack o' doom. She went to see you 
yes'day afternoon — if you'd care to know, you'd orter asked 
her then. She'd no money, as you might a-knowed, now 
her sister's gone, poor thing, and you've got ail. I never did 
think much o' men folk, at no time," said Harriet, bitterly; 
"and the more I see, the less I think." 

With which she goes. Nothing more is to be got from her ; 
no rote, no message has been left He hmts up Johnny, 
who corroborates the housekeeper's story. He has driven 
Miss Vera to the station, and w*w her o» board the trait, 



Jf6 TJUCMTMD. 

her trunk checked, and the ticket taken far New York. ■* 
yond that he has nothing to telL 

The difference half an hour can make in a life I Colone; 
Ffrench walked over the road to Charlton, every pulse beat 
ing high with hope and expectation, full of intense longing t « 
see Vera again — he walk* over the road from Charlton full 
of consternation, regret, keen disappointment, and dreadL 
Has his refusal to accept her offer, her generous sacrifice yes- 
terday, given her offense? Has the again misunderstood 
him ? Has she thought — good Heaven ! can she think he 
does not want her ? Where can she have gone ? What does 
she mean to do ? Work for her living ? The thought is a 
blank terror to him. He has not the faintest idea as to who 
her friends in New York may be, or where he must look for 
her. Look for her, of course he must, if he is not arrested 
before he can do it He strides over the ground full of pas- 
sionate impatience and wrath with himself. What a stupid 
blunderer he is to have let her go as he did last evening, to 
have refused her noble offer in that abrupt way — the offer 
that it cost her so much to make. He has taken it for granted 
that she would continue on at Charlton — the idea of her 
leaving, of her working, is an idea that has never once 
occurred to him. Of course, she must be found, and at once , 
it will not be a difficult matter to trace her in the city. 

He is close upon the hotel, when a man, a stranger, a 
short, commonplace-looking person, steps up to him and 
touches his hat 

" Ask pardon — Colonel Ffrench, if I air 't mistaken ?* 

" That is my name." 

" Thanky. Could I have a few minutes' private conversa- 
tion with you, colonel ? It's important, and I shan't keep 
you long." 

" My good fellow, no— not at present I am in the dense 
and all of a hurry. Cosne this a fterno o n s ay at three. I 
cannot stop now/' 



TMACMTBD. jjf 



M Aik pardon, but if s your own business catond- 
wise, if s both our business at present It's about this here 
little job over at Charlton." 

Colonel Ffrench stops and stares at him 

" Who are you ? " he demands. 

" Detective Daggit, of New York ; down here on my own 
hook, and a purpose to get at the bottom of this here affair 
I've a word or two I'd particularly like to say, if so be you're 
as much interested in this matter as most folks would be in 
your place." 

" Come with me," says Colonel Ffrench, and leads the way 
to his room. Here he points out a chair to his visitor, and 
seats himself squarely in front of him. 

" Now, then, Detective Daggit, what is it you have to say ? " 

"Thanky, colonel, 9 ' says polite Mr. Daggit, wiping his 
already very dry mouth with his hand : " first of all there's a 
reward out— offered by you — for the apprehension of the 
Charlton burglar A handsome sum — five thousand dollars." 

Colonel Ffrench nods. 

" Very well — I mean to earn that money, and I don't think 
it's goin' to be sech a tough job nuther. I've been employed 
by the late lamented party this some time back to keep an 
eye on her husband — a very nice gentleman, indeed, but a lit- 
tle wild or so, about ladies and such ; and when it came out 
about this here robbery, I tackled the job at once. Now, 
colonel, there's them as suspect you — ask pardon — but it's 
like folks to do it You being next heir and that, and if yon 
attempt to leave this lere little town you'll be arrested — as* 
pardon- —it ain't a pleasant thing to say, but you wilL" 

" I know it," Colonel Ffrench says, sententiously. 

" Then what you'd better do, colonel, is to *ay by here t 
bit and wait, and hand the matter over to me. I've ferreteo 
oat gentlemen of this kidney before, and I'll do it again, oe 
lay name's not Daggit. I'll lay you a fifty that I have this 
fallow safely under ray thumb before another fwtnight* 



S7t 

Colonel Ffrench looks at him keenly. 

« You suspect " he begins. 

* Never mind who I suspect just now. Til make my sis 
picions sure before I name names. Just 'answer me a few 
questions first, then 111 take myself of£" 

He pulls out a note-book and pencil, and proceeds to pro* 
pound sundry questions. They have little bearing on ths 
case in hand, so far as Colonel Ffrench can see, but he an- 
swers them. Mr. Daggit is rising to go when a visitor is an- 
nounced. He enters and proves to be Daddy. Instantly 
Mr. Daggit* s bright eyes bore two holes through him. 

"I've been to Shaddeck Light, Cap'n Dick/ 1 says the 
softy, shifting from one foot to the other in his usual way. 
"I was here last evenin' to see you, but you was eout 
Somebody's been a stoppin' at Shaddeck, and forgot suthin', 
and I fetched it right along to you." 

He produces, after much fumbling, a little flat package, 
wrapped in a piece of newspaper. Detective Daggit waits 
and watches with keen professional interest. 

u Why do you bring it to me ? " asks Colonel Ffrench. 

Daddy does not know why ; he shifts from foot to foot, 
and gapes vacantly at the ceiling. He found 'em and he 
brought 'em; he don't know why; they might belong to 
Capfo Dick, mebbe — nobody else goes thar. He found 'em 
yes'day ; the pieces o* paper blowed inter the rocks, the pic 
ter on the floor of Cap'n Dick's room. Thought they might 
be hisV and so — he stops. Colonel Ffrench has uttered a 
sharp exclamation of surprise. 

" Miss Charlton ! " he exclaims. 

He has opened the flat package, and finds a card photo, 
graph and two or three scraps of a letter. It is the photo 
graph o! a lady ; it is the face of Eleanor Charlton. Deteo 
tive Daggit pounces upon it, and looks at it over his shoulder 

"An uncommon good-looking young woman," he says 
" Ask pardon, but you know her, colonel f H 



TMACXMD. 379 

* Know her ? Yes," Colonel French answers dreamily. 

Eleanor Charlton's picture and true I He looks at h 
again ; she has changed ; the hair is dressed differently sb# 
looks older, graver, more careworn, he fancies, than as he 
remembezs her. He looks at the back ; there is the photo* 
grapher's name and the place — New Orleans— -and a date m 
pencil. 

"Why, it was only taken two months ago,* he says, in 
turprise. 

He looks at the torn scraps of writing ; they have been 
ret, and are blotted. They are fragments of a letter, but 
:ontain little that is legible. There is a name, however, on 
jne . " Yours ever — yours always — Ernest. " 

" Jest step back, young man," says Detective Daggit, brisk- 
y, to Daddy; "you're a treasure, my lad, that's what you 
are. Now, Colonel Ffrench — ask pardon for bothering you 
In this way, but I must ask a few more questions. Tell me 
all you know about this here pretty young lady. It's the clew 
Fve wanted, as sure as I'm Daggit." 

Colonel Ffrench tells him. How Eleanor Charlton came 
from New Orleans six years before, and remained a few 
weeks with her mother. This photograph does not belong to 
him ; he has never seen her, nor heard of her for the past 
four years. Then she was in Europe, traveling with a lady. 
It is not much he has to tell, but Mr. Daggit asks a number 
of adroit questions, again apparently wide of the mark. Now 
and then Mr.Fanshawe's name crops up, but in an off-hand 
sort of way. At *^ugth he rises, satisfied, and puts up his 
book. 

" I'll take that picter, and these pieces of paper," he says, 
"and I'll go with you, young man, to Shaddeck Light, and 
have a look around. I've no doubt, from what you say, the 
burglar took a walk there after he'd done the job, and kept 
dark there all next day. He's dropped the picter m 
pulling out his handkerchief or watch, and he's tore up th* 



ft* TmdcrmD. 

letter, and die wind's blowed thaw scraps back. Thaf i 
how." 

" Do 70a mean to say 70a connect the finding of this 
photograph in any way with " 

"Yes, I do. Fll not tell yon why, so you needn't ask. It 
isn't goin' to be a hard job— not half so tough as if a profes- 
sional cracksman was in it Lord 1 these amateurs are tripped 
up as easy as nothin' at alL Good-day, colonel ; jest you keep 
quiet here until you hear from me again. I'm off this after* 
noon, but before I go, I'll drop a hint in a quarter I know ot 
and there won't be any warrant got out. I've my eye on the 
right man, and Fll have my hand on him before you're two 
weeks older. And once I've got him," cries Detective Dag- 
git, his light eyes flashing out, his wiry fists clenching, u TU 
hold him while he has a body to kick or a soul to d— ! 
Now, Daddy — ram name, Daddy — let's go and get a boat." 

So Detective Daggit departs, and goes to work with a wilL 
He visits Shaddeck Light, and inspects every cranny and 
corner. He visits Charlton Place, and investigates the late 
Mrs. Fanshawe's bedroom minutely. He even spends half 
an hour in Mr. Fanshawe's apartments. His face beams as 
he bids Harriet good-day and receives her parting glare as a 
benediction. 

Colonel Ffrench, remaining behind with what patience he 
may, is compelled perforce to give up the pursuit of Vera. 
But a week or two can make little matter ; she will not leave 
New York so soon. Even if he found her, as things stand, 
what is there he can say that she will listen to ? His hands 
and tongue are tied until the Charlton crrninal is discovered. 
He will wait as patiently as may be, and trust in Providence 
and Detective Daggit 

The first week brings him a note. D. D. is on the track ; 
his bird is in New York ; he has caught him sure, but doesn't 
mean to lay hands on him just yet. He is going South— if 
New Orleans ; D. D. means to go, too. 



Colonel Ffrench waits in feverish impatience for a second 
dispatch. The restraint, the surprise are unendurable. His 
longing to see Vera is becoming more than he can bean 
People still whisper, but not so loudly ; it is understood that 
the real burglar is found, or on the eve of being found, and 
that the Cuban Colonel is simply waiting here until that dis- 
covery can be officially announced. The close of the second 
week — the middle of the third comes, and brings no letter. 
It does better, however ; it brings Detective Daggit himself 
tired, travel-stained, dusty, but triumphant 

" I only waited a minute to order up a nip of brandy in the 
bar " he says. " You expected a letter, didn't you ? I didn't 
write — writin' never does no good — I came. I've got my 
man, as safe, and sure, and sound as I've got this /" 

He lays hold of the brandy and water brought by the 
attendant, and tosses it off exultingly. Colonel Ffrench 
leans forward pale with excitement, and waits. 

"'Twas him — the one I had my eye on from the first. 
Oh 1 he's a precious lot, he is ! When he left the house with 
the jewels, he took the shore road, and walked out to the 
rum little shanty you call Shaddeck Light There he stayed in 
hiding all next day, and there he dropped the picter and tore 
up the letter. His given name's Ernest — sweet, pretty name 
for a burglar, ain't it ? At dark he crosses to land, walks to 
St Ann's, takes the first boat he finds (one was picked up 
adrift a day or two after, you remember), and rows himself to 
Greenport There he got aboard the cars, and went to New 
York. He stayed there a day, hid the spoils, and came 
straight back.* 9 

"Back!" 

44 Straight back— straight as a die— to this place. Was at 
file funeral, and everything, as large as life. The morning 
tfter the funeral he left again, Jhis time for good, taking all 
his traps with him — a cozy lot. No, don't ask questions— 
wait awhile. He went up to New York, aid the first thing 



)•» TMAcauk 



be did wh to shave off hi* whiak cr i sp lendid wMa fc w al 
die ladies lored 'em I 'Twas an uncommon pity, bat they 
had to go. I was there at th$ time, havin' my hair cut, and 
I got a lock. I reckon when the trial comet on, 'twill fit 
that other little lock the coroner has. Then he went South." 

Mr. Daggit is thirsty, and takes another pull at the brandy 
and water. Colonel Ffrench waits, silently but excitedly. 

M There he sold some of the jewels — taking them out of 
the setting, of course — some in Baltimore, some in Washing- 
ton, and so on until he got to New Orleans. Then he went 
to see the young lady — Miss Charlton. She's principal of a 
school there, very high-toned, and fashionable, and all that 
There, too, he changed his name. What does he call him- 
self ? Why, Mr. Ernest Dane." 

Ernest Dane 1 Colonel Ffrench knits his brows. Ernest 
Dane I Where has he heard that name before ? 

" Sounds familiar, does it ? Well, it seems he's a very old 
lover of this Miss Charlton — been keepin' company for seven 
years, and in a few weeks they're to be married. There ho 
is still, and there he'll stay until we get back, for I want you 
to come with me this time. You'll like to be in at the death, 
besides being a friend of the young lady's, and being on the 
spot to break it to her easy. He's all safe — no fear of that 
—watched night and day, and hasn't an idee any one suspects. 
Lord ! if s as neat a job as ever was done, and as easy." 

" But who is he ? " Colonel Ffrench asks ; " you have not 
told me that An old lover of Miss Charlton's, and about 
to be married to her 1 Why, this is horrible I Who is the 
fellow?" 

" He calk himself Ernest Dane now, and I reckon it's his 
nam? fast enough, though he had another tacked to it when 
he was here. Who is he ? " Detective Daggit strikes the 
table a blow that makes the brandy and water jump. " If i 
Mr. Ernest Dane Fansbawe 1 It's the dead woman's own 
husband, by the eternal jingo 1 " 



*3 



CHAPTER XV. 




|N old-fashioned, Moorish-looking mansion, not far 
from the Rue des Ursulines — a great wilderness 
of garden, where all luxuriant Southern flowers 
bloom and run riot in their own sweet superabundance; 
orange-trees, magnolias, golden rods, and roses, everywhere 
roses. A high wall shuts it in — high gates shut the world 
out. It is a young ladies' seminary, Miss Eleanor Charlton, 
principal 

It is late in the afternoon of a lovely October day. The 
fmsumnatS* very still; the young ladies are at study; the 
jingle of two or three pianos alone breaks the silence. In 
her sitting-room Miss Charlton is alone, busily writing. The 
bowed head, the stately figure, the deep, sweet, serious eye* 
are those of the Eleanor Charlton of six and a half years ago 
There is hardly any perceptible change. She hardly looks 
older ; she certainly looks happier. She is dressed in black 
silk, a touch of fine lace and a knot of crimson sAk at the 
throat — fair, and gracious, and good, and a gentlewoman to 
her finger-tips. She looks a strong and self-reliant woman 
sitting here, brave as well as gentle, sufficient unto herself 
one who has, unaided, made a niche for herself in the world, 
and fits u weL. She has the look of one who need not merge 
and lose her own individuality in that of any man. But it 
is not so. Despite her nine and twenty years, her amiable 
self-poise and reliance, her well-established and populai 
school, Miss Charlton is about to go the way of all woman- 
kind, gentle and simple, leaned and unlettered, and be mar- 
ried. It is a vesjr old afair ; mere tKaa seven years hmm 



$M4 nuprmiK 

passed once die and Ernest Dane fast met He is Ml 
at all the sort of a man any one would imagine a woman 
of Eleanor Charlton's stamp— earnest-hearted, pure-souled, 
falling in lore with. In no way is he her equal, in no wfcj 
worthy of her, bat the fact remains, she loves him. For 
orar six years they have been apart Fate, with a strong 
hand, tas held mem asunder ; but through it all, through 
time, absence, silence, doubt, she has loved him, hoped in 
him, waited for him. And at last, Fate, conquered by fidelity, 
has brought them together. He has urged an immediate 
marriage, and she has consented. In two weeks she will be 
his wife. 

Some dne taps at the door. It is a black boy with a 
card. Miss Charlton looks up from her writing, and glances 
at it A look of surprise, then of gladness, lights hei 
face. 

" Colonef Ffrench ! " she exclaims — u what a pleasant woa> 
prise. Show the gentleman into the reception-room, and 
tell him I will be there in a moment" 

She rises, tnd with the womanly instinct that never faQi, 
goes first to the glass. But the shining coils of silken chest- 
nut hair are smooth ; lace, bow, cuffs, all are in order ; ao 
she shakes oat her d* rk skirts and goes to meet her guest 
She has never seen him, and but very indirectly heard of 
him ; since that long past summer. It is with very genuine 
pleasure she goes to meet him now. 

He rises at her entrance. How distinguished, how fine- 
booking, how soldierly he is 1 is her first, instinctive, feminine 
thought — and yet so exceedingly like the Captain Dick of 
old. She comes forward and holds out her hand, with the 
•mile he remembers. 

" Colonel Ffrench 1 How very, very glad I am 1 What 
a grea«. and delightful surprise 1 " 

He does not answer, although in look and warm hand- 
pressure his greeting is cordial enough. But—it is a curioos 



m 

KMTL 

44 1 scarcely dared hop*," the says, "we would ever mMl 
•gain. What a wanderer you hare become— now in CentHd 
America — now in Cub*— now in Europe. And such- a 
Paladin, too 1 I hare heard it all, you fee. It agrees with 
you, I think, the wandering and the fighting. Yon are look- 
ing wonderfully welL ' 

"That ie a compliment I can honettly return. Do you 
know where I came from last ? " 

"Yes," she answers, and her tone is grave and sad. "1 
saw it all in the papers. You were at Charlton when poos 
Dora Lightwood died. Poor, bright little Dora I Has the 
burglar yet been found ? " 

He looks at her grarely, with something, oddly snoufX 
like compassion in the gray darkness of his eyes. 

« Yes," he says, " I believe he has." 

That odd look makes her regard him questioningly ; but 
he says no name. There is a pause. 

" And Vera? " she says, with some hesitation — " how does 
she bear it?" 

" I can hardly answer that question," he responds slow- 
ly. " Vera has left Charlton, and is at present, I believe, 
with some friends in New York. Naturally, it has been 
t terrible blow to her; no sisters ever were more at- 
tached" 

" Dear little Vera ! what a bright, joyous, frank little fairy 
she was 1 She has become a brilliant society belle since, I 
nav* heard; but under it all, I am sure, the same true, 
brave heart beats. I should like, I shoulu greatly like, to 
see her." 

M I think I may promise that much in Vera's name," he 
i«ys ; " she will come to see you soon. ' 

That fleeting look, as if of pity for her, is in his eyes again. 
What does it mean ?— or is it only her fancy ? She takes 

I* 



her courage in Doth hands, and looks at Urn, a smile fn ins 
fawn eyes, a flush on the delicate cheek. 

" Colonel Ffrench, do tell me — I am dying to know at* 
you really married to Vera ? " 

M am married to Vera, and hare been lot over sti 
years." 

Here is silence. The wistful, haxel eyes linger on ha 
face, and ask the questions ber lips cannot frame. 

" All that is too long a story for to-day," he says, with a 
Swine. "Vera shall tell you everything when yon meet 
Now let me ask a question in turn, and do not think me ins* 
pertinent Yarn are about to be married ? " 

" Yes," she answers, frankly, but flushing. 

"To Mr. Ernest Dane ? " 

"To Ernest Dane. Do you know him, Colonel Ffrench? 

" I — think so. I am not sure. I fancy * was he whs 
called upon me once at Shaddeck Light, the very afternoon 
of your arrival at Charlton. He was at St Ann's that week, 
was he not ? " 

" Yes," she answers, embarrassed ; " he was there. Bat 
it is curious he has never spoken of knowing you. I was en- 
gaged to him even then,' 9 she says, in a very low voice. 

She is thinking, and so, perhaps, is he, that but for that 
engagement she might long ago have been Richard Ffrench* s 
wife. 

" We were poor," she goes on, simply ; " he did not seem 
to succeed very well at that time, and my poor mother was 
greatly opposed to him. So our engagement was a strict 
secret He visited me once— one evening at Charlton, and 
from that night until a fortnight ago we never met He has 
been in business out West, and working hard, poor fellow. 
I have been, as you may Jiave heard, traveling with an invalid 
lady pretty nearly all over Europe. It is oaring to hei gen- 
erous liberality that this place and tins school are mine- 
that I am I hope securely established for life. At intervals 



3* 

Erne* and I have corresponded, bat at long intervals and 
very irregularly. Now he has secured, not wealth but a com- 
petence, and he has come to claim me. In two weeks we 
are to be married You will stay and be present, will yom 
not, my friend, and — if it may be— bring Vera ? " 

Before he can reply, the black boy reappears, and ushers 
in a visitor, Mr. Ernest Dane. 

" I am so glad I " Eleanor says, rising quietly, her whole 
fcce lighting. " Now you will meet Ernest," she passes 
Colonel Ffrench, and goes forward gladly to meet her lorer, 
" there is a very old friend here who thinks he has met yo« 
before. Colonel Ffrench, Mr. Dane." 

Colonel Ffrench rises, his dark brow bent, his gray, reso- 
lute eyes stern, his lips set, and stands soldierly, inflexible, 
commanding, confronting the face he knows. But is it the 
man he seeks ? the slayer of his wife, the midnight thief; the 
cowardly obber of a woman? Where are all the long, 
blonde, Lrandreary whiskers, and can their loss alone make 
such a change in a countenance ? How weak is that woman- 
ish face, now that its hirsute disguise is gone, and what an 
excellent thing is a beard to hide a weak month and a fool's 
chin. 

" I was not mistaken," says Colonel Ffrench's deep tonesi 
1 I have met Mr. Dane before." 

Mr. Dane is deadly pale — is frightfully pale, rtis bine 
eyes shift and fall from the strong, stern, relentless gray 
ones — the irresolute lips tremble. Mr. Dane is horribly 
frightened, and shi ws it 

44 1 — I think not I — I think there must be some with 
take. I have never met Colonel Ffrench before*" 

"Your memory fails, Mr. Dane — we have met," says 
Colonel Ffrench, keeping his relentless gaze immovably 
fixed *pon him. " Call to mind — if you can— an afternoon, 
over six years ago, when yon honored me by a visit in m§ 
den— Shaddeck Light" 



Mr. Dane, itOl white to the Kpe, nukes the efcit, a&4 
manages to recall it Bat hit pallor is so great, his alma 
so apparent, his embarrassment so intense and real, that 
Eleanor looks from one to the other, in sodden tenor and 
dismay. Before she can speak, Colonel Ffrench rises. 

"I will call to-morrow," he says, and once again that pn>» 
foundly pitying look is in his eyes. "I leave New Orleans 
\ m the afternoon, but I will call and see you before I go." 

He departs. As the street-door closes behind him, a dmhi 
looks out stealthily from behind some espaliers. 

"Well, colonel, what d'ye think ?" a voice asks, 

"It is all right, Daggit, you have your man. He wfll 
give you no trouble. Do not approach him until he is well 
away from the house. The lady must not be alarmed." 

He goes, and Detective Daggit resumes his watch. It is 
a long one.' The sun sets, the night falls, the moon rises 
long before Mr. Ernest Dane quits the house. 

But he comes at last, walking rapidly, looking about him 
nervously, and still startlingly pale. Mr. Daggit follows 
with the tread of a cat, shod at once with the shoes of silence 
and swiftness. A square or two is passed, the seminary is 
out of sight, then at the corner of a quiet street Detective 
Daggit lays his hand on the shoulder of Mr. Ernest Dane ; 
lays it so suddenly, so sharply, with so strong and steely ** 
clasp, that it extorts a cry from the startled man. 

"None o' that," says Mr. Detective Daggit; 4 "'11 not 
do a mite of good, and will only raise a crowd, which would 
be unpleasant, I should think, to a gentleman of yout fine 
feelin's. None o' that, either I " as Mr. Dane instinct/ rely 
strikes out to wrench himself free. " I'm the strongest uw 
of the two, and if you d* do it, why IVe a seven-shooter 
tare, and by the Lord above ! Ill shoot you like a mad dog 
v~fore you get round the corner." 

a What do you mean? Who are you? Why is this oat 
cat,*?" lemanda Mr, Ernest Dane. The moonlight, tht* 



S*9 

white, piercing, brilliant Southern moonlight, is fall on hb 
fcce, and dead and in his coffin, it will never be whiter 
His voice chokes and breaks as he speaks — a coward M& 
Dane is, to the depths of his white-livered soul. 

" What do I mean ? " repeats Detective Daggit ; " why, 
I mean you're my prisoner ? Who am I ? Why, I'm De* 
tective Daggit of New York. Why is this outrage ? Why, 
because you've robbed and killed your wife, and we're going 
to see what an enlightened jury of free-born fellow-citizens 
will say about it, Mr. Ernest Dane Fanshawe I " 

He makes a sudden desperate break and frees himself 
but, before he has run ten steps, the fingers of steel clutch 
his collar again, and the cold muzzle of a revolver is at hit 
temple. 

"You would, would you?" says Mr. Detective Daggit 
M You'd give me the slip after all the trouble Tve had run- 
ning after you, would you ? Hi, there I McFarlan I * A 
second man appears, as if by magic. " On with the brace* 
•ets I Safe bind, safe find — and there's a little matter of five 
thousand dollars at stake. Ask pardon, Mr. Fanshawe— 
click I that* s on— now the other— click again I Lo I that's 
what I call lovely and comfortable — now we can jog on to- 
gether in peace. Take the other side, Mac. I hope yon 
don't find 'em too tight, Mr. Fanshawe ? I wouldn't nurt 
four wrists on any account 19 

Handcuffed, and between his captors— white as death, he 
walks on, livid terror on every feature of his ghastly face. 

"Ask pardon for being so rude and sudden like, bat 
you'll have to postpone that wedding of yours a few years, 
Mr. Ernest Dane Fanshawe. Ain't it uncommon soon, too 
— only three weeks since your fizzt was buried! It was 
neatly done, Mr. Fanshawe— wait a minute I cfon't interrupt 
--four counsel will tell the jury all about yow innocence 
by and by. You stole in about the middle of the night— 
wait a minute, I s a y a n d hid in a closet in your whVt 



$gO TMAFMA 

room. Ai toon as die wis asleep yon stole ovt, pochcteo 
the jewels, and in some way woke her up. She straggled 
with you — wait a minute, can't yon I — tore off the crape, 
polled a handful from your whiskers — beautiful whiskers, 
Mr. Fanshawe— I wonder at you for shavin' 'em off Yon 
broke away, got oat, and made straight for Shaddeck Light; 
You dropped a few little things there, but never mind, FB 
let you have the picture again when sentence is passed. 
If 11 be a comfort to you, mebbe, up in Sing Sing or Auburn* 
And you come back for the funeral I Now thaCs what I 
call showin' the highest-toned sort of feelin' and respect for 
the dead, and all that, and very well you looked, Mr. Fan- 
shawe, in your mournin' clothes. And then you come down 
here and make lore to the school-marm— oh I darn it, wait 
a minute I — and are goin' to many her, too, in a fortnight 
in the most honorable manner. I've seen a good many 
sharp games in my time, and met a good many sharp cards, 
but if ever I met a sharper, or see a sharper, then I'm ever- 
lastin'ly darned 1 But others is sharp, too, and Joe Daggit's 
one of 'cm, though he says it as hadn't ought to. And I've 
got you, my buck, and I mean to keep you, and I've got the 
five thousand reward, and I mean to keep that / And we'll 
send you up for half a dozen of years at hard labor, by the 
living Lord I " 

As Mr. Ernest Dane Fanshawe passes with Detective 
Daggit on this moonlight night forever from this story, it 
may be mentioned here that Mr. Daggit was among the pro- 
phets, and that at this moment Mr. Fanshawe, the elegant, 
die languid, the handsome, the super-refined, is doing the 
State some service in the pleasant rural village of Sing Sing. 
No doubt you read the trial — it produced a great sensation, 
and is still fresh in your memory. The reason of Mr. Dane' i 
change of name came out with many other interesting item 
of that gentleman's dashing career. It was the name of a 



SBADDECr UGBT. »* 

Maternal grandparent, who bad left him the legacy which 
took him to Europe, and he had assumed it simply to escape 
disagreeable dons. He has learned a useful trade — shoe- 
making, it is understood — and has had the widespread sym- 
pathy of all the young ladies in the country. He was t$ 
handsome, poor fellow, and /# interesting, and it was suck a 
pity to sentence him for six years' imprisonment to hard labor 
far simply taking his own wife's jewels. 



For Eleanor. Well, there are simply some things that 
cannot be told, some griefs that mere words are powerless 
lo paint So far as this world's hopes are concerned, her life 
came to an end in the'hour when Richard Ffrench, unutter- 
ably distressed, broke to her the news. But she will live and 
go on with her life-work, bravely, nobly, to the end, the true 
woman Heaven has made her, with steadfast eyes fixed on 
thai other world, "the world that sets this right" 




IIADDICK LIGHT. 

GUSTY November day. Dead leaves swirl in wild 
brown drifts through the streets of St Ann's bo- 
fore the wind, a wind that buffets, and tosses, and 
shouts like the lusty young giant it is, that wrenches and 
twists the tree-tops, mat rattles the sundry vine-stalks which 
a few months ago hung heavy with great drooping clus- 
ters of roses, that flings dust by the handful into the eyes 
of the unwary, and then whooping in gusty glee, flies off 
to flhaddeck Bay. 
It is the TU*frftt of the afternoon w h e n Richard Wrench 



jgr mudbmct uqmt. 

mras oat of the great dm avenue of Chariton Placet andp*» 
pares for a windy walk to town. He only came yesterday 
and departs again tins evening; His work is done, his 
name is cleared, die real culprit fies in prison — Fate itself 
cannot hold him and his wife apart longer. Never has 
itbtnair Captain Dick, in the brightest, most spirited, niost 
sanguine days of his youth, looked more hopeful, more buoy 
antly happy than does the ex-cavalry colonel to-day. He 
is going for Vera; no misunderstanding, no foolish scrapie 
shall keep them asunder longer. She has all the pride of 
—a Men angel where he is concerned, but love shall tri- 
umph over pride, and in his heart he knows as well as he 
lives that Vera cares for him yet So— free, cleared, trium- 
phant, rich, loving, hopeful— lie gets over die ground at his 
usual swinging pace, whistling cheerily as he goes, "My 
love is but a lassie yet" He has discovered this much, 
when Vera left Chariton she went direct to her old friend, 
Mrs. Trafton, and has remained with her ever since. Before 
this time to-morrow he will be at Mrs. Trafton's door to 
claim his own, through life and beyond death if he may. 

How it blows t and how the great stripped trees wrestle 
with the blast in a fierce embrace 1 He bends his powerful 
figure before it, as it comes swooping down upon him, fling- 
ing spiteful siroccos of dust in his eyes, and sending die 
blood bounding througl every strong vein. His spirits, aL 
ready high, rise higher as it buffets him. It is like strong 
wine, this exhilarating autumn gale, with the saltness of die 
sea, the fragrance of the pine woods in its breath at once. 

The tide is out, as he turns into die shore road, the long 
black bar is bare that leads to Shaddeck Light, and crossing 
it he sees Daddy. The old den looks battered, wind-blown, 
weather-beaten and tumbledown. He has half a mind to 
cross over, and take a look at it before he goes — he has not 
been there for many a year. As he approaches Daddy espies 
trim, and comes to a halt 



SMUDLMCT LiBMT. JM 

• Hallo I " cheerily tayi Colonel Ffrench. 

•• Hallo I" Daddy stolidly returns ; and then Daddy stands oa 
tie other foot and eyes his master, "Yer ain't seenher,hevywl 
Yer don't know she's here, do yer ?" he vagnely inquires. 

"Seen her? What her?" 

"Yer didn't hear she'd come back, did yer? Said so her 
sel£ Told me not to tell nuther. A-goin' back in the keen 
to-night Come to take a look. She's thar yet." 

Daddy jerks his thumb over his shoulder in the direction 
of the ocean. But Colonel Ffrench begins to understand 
FTfc dark face flushes and lights. 

" Are you speaking of Miss Vent ?" he asks. 

"Ahl" says Daddy, nodding— " her. She's thar yit 
Come to take a last look at the dear old place. That's what 
tki said. Blessed if he ain't gone 1" says Daddy, as his 
master turns from him, and in a minute is crossing the 
bar. A dim perception of the truth stirs vaguely in the fog 
of Daddy's mind. "Blessed if he ain't goin'ter her I Blessed 
if he ain't sweet on her 1" says Daddy to himself as he lum- 
bers heavily away. 

She is sitting on the little sea-wall, her fingers locked to- 
gether, her hands lying listlessly on her black lap. Her long 
crape vail is thrown back ; the clear face is like a star set in 
Jet. The great, dark eyes, the loveliest the wide earth holds, 
this man thinks, have all the sadness of farewell in their 
depths. She hears his footsteps, and turns ; then rises and 
stands, pale, startled, surprised, before him. But a light 
comes into her eyes — the quick light of irrepressible gladness 
and welcome. And he sees it 

44 Vera I" he exclaims, and holds out both hands. 

"Captain Dick I " she answers, and gives him hen, The 
name, the look, the manner, have swept away six long year% 
and it is the Captain Dick of Charlton days, her hero, that is 
here. It is but for an instant ; then she laughs isintly, and 
dmwfl away her hands. 
IT* 



J94 MMADDMCr UQBT. 

"I thought for a moment I was a little girl again. Yov 
looked so like the Captain Dick of those far-off day* 
Bat I thought you were in New York. 11 

u And I thought you were in New York." 

He seats himself beside her, on the stone wall, and looks 
with loving, longing, happy eyes into her half shrinking face. 

" I was in New York ; I have been ever since I left—* 

u Why did you leave ?° he breaks in. " That was cruel, 
Vera. I went back early next morning, lull of all I had to 
lay, all one heart could hold— and you were gone I " 

She looks away from him, and out to where the angry 
red of the sunset beams through gathering clouds. 

"It was best I should go— it was inevitable, and Mrs* 
Trafton's house has ever been a second home. I went to 
aer in my trouble and my loneliness, and she was good to 
me, better than I can say. Colonel Ffrench, 1 have read it sU 
—the dreadful truth, that vindicates you, and condemns that 
wretched man. And I hardly think it surprised me, although 
it was a profound shock. For she loved him— oh 1 my dear 
little Dot 1 she loved him. I always knew him to be weak 
and wicked, but of this I feel sure— he never intended to go 
beyond the stealing of the jewels — he never intended to 
injure her? 

"Not he came to 4eal, not to murder. If she had only 
not awakened. But why should you ever think of him? n 

"I think of Eleanor, poor, noble, great-hearted Eleanor I 
She haunts me like a ghost Some day I hope to see her." 

" I have ventured to promise that much in your name," he 
says. " You will let me keep my word, will you not ? " 

"I shall see her, certainly, 1 ' Vera answers. "In a week 
or two I start with Mrs. Trafton to spend the winter in Flor- 
ida, and we shall take New Orleans on our way. She is fall* 
ing into a decline, Mrs. Trafton, and has been ordered South, 
I go with her as companion. That is why I am here. I have 
eoine so oucc a ouk ax* at poor Dora's 



SBADDRCK UQWT. 395 

M And you chink I will let you go ?" he say* " Vera, torn 
tound, look at me, instead of the sky and the water, and tefl 
Me, if you can, how long this is to go on. For six years 
yon have been my wife, in name. In all that time we have 
been held apart, by my own act in the first years, by misunder- 
standings and mutual pride in these last It is time all thai 
should end. I love my wife, I want my wife, and I mean to 
have her. No," as she flashes upon him one of the old im 
perious glances, and tries to free her hands, "I am not to 
be annihilated even by the fire of your eyes, my Vera, eyes 
• have thought the most beautiful on earth, the truest, the 
dearest, ever since I saw them first I know you cared for 
me a little once; I think you care for me a little still; I 
know that I love you with all the strength of my heart In 
my trouble you came to me, you offered to stay with me, to 
be my wife. Vera, I claim that promise now — I claim you. 
I am going to Cuba in a week — not to rejoin the army, 
I have done with that, but political purposes, all the same. 
Vera, will you come with me to Cuba, instead of to Florida, 
with Mrs. Trafton ? " 

She looks up, and the dark, sweet eyes that meet his are 
fall of tears. 

" I will go with you to the end of the world," she answer* 

There has been a hiatus here, you understand. The wind 
shouts as if in derision at this pair of lovers, and the seat 
dashing higher and higher over the rocks, sends its flaky 
spray in their faces. 

'' And it is not from any sense of duty, such as sent you 
to me at the hotel, but because " 

"Because I love you," says Vera, speaking the words far 
the first time in her life; "because I have loved you torn 
the very first" 



|00 SMADDMCr UGMT. 

The tide is rising ; if this ecstatic pair linger much longer 
they will have a chance to pass the night HU-4-UU on die 
fa will The crimson and fiery orange of the strong sunset 
is paling rapidly before grayness of coming night and gather- 
ing storm. The wind still shrieks about them like a wind 
gone mad; sea-gulls whirl and whoop startlingly near; the 
Hashing spray leaps higher and higher. 

" The tide is rising," he says, " let us go. If we sit here 
longer we will have to stay here till morning, and one night 
you may think quite enough to spend at Shaddeck Light ; 
although I shall look back to that night with the deepest 
gratitude, for to it I owe the happiness of my life." 

He offers his hand and she takes it, and so, clinging to it, 
passes over the wet, weedy, slippery kelp and shingle to the 
shore. There, as by one impulse, both pause and look back. 
Before diem lies die new life, behind, the old, and they linger 
far a second to bid it farewell. 

One last yellow gleam of sunset breaks from behind the 
wind-blown clouds and lights palely the solitary little brown 
cot Falling fast to decay, with broken windows, hanging 
doors, settling roo( it stands waiting for its death-blow, in 
forsaken and bleak old age — a desolate picture. While they 
look die light fades, swift darkness Ms, and night and tone- 
wrap Shaddeck Light 



NEW BOOKS 



AND NEW EDITIONS 



THE GAMBLERS 

A dramatic story of American Life. By CHARLES KLEIN ; 
and ARTHUR HORNBLOW, authors of "The Lion and the 
Mouse," "The Third Degree," "John Marsh's Millions," etc, ; 
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